Dial M for Meat Loaf (8 page)

12

Sophie finally made it to the paper by ten. She’d spent the last hour driving around, trying to clear her head. It hadn’t done much good. In the end, she simply had to put Nathan out of her thoughts and get on with the day.

Once on the ninth floor of the
Times Register
tower, she headed for her office. Sophie usually put in about ten hours a week at the paper. Normally, the job would have required far more time. That’s where her son, Rudy, came in.

Rudy Greenway had grown up in Montana, living with his father, a minister in the Church of the Firstborn. It was a long, heartbreaking story. Sophie hadn’t been allowed to visit or even talk to him for a great part of his young life. After a nasty court battle, her husband had been granted sole legal custody. He’d quickly filled Rudy’s head with poison. No wonder her son wouldn’t even take her phone calls. But life—and the truth— eventually caught up with him.

When Rudy was eighteen, he appeared on Sophie’s doorstep, asking if he could stay with her and Bram during his freshman year at the University of Minnesota. The fact was, he’d run away from his father and the repressive values he represented. Rudy was gay, not that he told Sophie that that was why he’d left. The church he’d been born into, and more importantly, the people he’d come to honor and respect, believed that homosexuality was a sin punishable by death. It was impossible for Rudy to be gay and at the same time be a good human being, loved by God as a part of His one and only true church. Rudy knew he’d either have to live a lie his whole life, try to press himself into a mold that would never fit, or leave. Coming to Minnesota, arriving on Sophie’s doorstep basically penniless, leaving his home and family—all of this must have been terrifying, but he saw no other way out. For the past five years, he’d been coming to terms with his desire to be a Christian, and his knowledge that he was—and would always be— a gay man.

Last spring, Rudy had committed himself formally to another young man, one he’d met during his first few months in Minneapolis. John Jacoby, a few years older than Rudy, was an artist. To keep body and soul together, he worked at a brewery in St. Paul. Sophie had thrown a grand party for them at the hotel after the commitment ceremony. The next day, John and Rudy had left for Europe. They’d backpacked across Spain, France, Germany, Austria, and Italy. Rudy had just completed his degree in theater arts at the university. He’d lived such a sheltered life as a child, he was hungry to learn about the world firsthand.

When Sophie called him in Italy and offered him the job as her assistant at the paper, he’d jumped at the chance—both as a way to get to know his mother better and as a way to pursue a genuine interest. He was young. He could always pursue his passion for the theater avocationally. Or, if he found the job at the paper ultimately uninteresting, he could move on. Whatever the case, for now, Sophie was elated to be able to work with her son. While she put in ten hours a week, he put in thirty to forty. Her name might come first on the office door, but Rudy was the heart and soul of the operation.

Breezing into the office, Sophie found her son sitting at one of the two desks, staring at a computer monitor.

“Hey, Mom,” he said, jumping up and giving her a kiss on the cheek. “You almost missed me.”

“Are you all set to go?”

“I’m just about to print out my itinerary.”

For the next two weeks, Rudy would be traveling around Minnesota, visiting small-town cafes for possible review. He planned to venture across the border into Wisconsin, as well.

Clicking the print icon, Rudy leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms high over his head. He was a handsome young man, with the same strawberry-blond hair, great smile, and diminutive height as his mother. While Sophie, in stiletto heels, hit the mark at five-three, Rudy, in his favorite Nikes, barely stretched to fiveseven. Taller than his mother, to be sure, but not as tall as he’d like to be. Still, he worked out in the gym several times a week and kept himself fit. More than fit. Sophie was starting to notice some major muscle development. As far as she was concerned, he had the perfect constitution to eat ten cafe meals a day. That’s what he’d have to do to canvass the region properly.

When the printout was finished, Rudy handed her a copy.

“You’re going to call me and give me updates, right?”

“Yes, Commander.” He saluted.

Ignoring his grin, she handed him the packet of pictures.

“What’s this?”

“As you drive through the small towns, I want you to show this snapshot around, see if anybody recognizes the man in the photo. Try the cafes first, but I also want you to take the picture to hardware stores, feed stores, whatever you think looks like it’s been around since the sixties. If you see a senior citizen center or a nursing home, try that, too. If somebody wants to keep a photo, or allows you to post one, that’s even better. Leave them the number at the paper. I realize I’m asking you to do some extra work, Rudy, but it’s important.”

“Do you mind telling me why?”

Sophie gave him the highlights. She could see by the gleam in his eyes that he was as fascinated by the story as she was. A chip off the old block. Or perhaps, in this case, a wing off the old turkey? “You’ve got your marching orders.”

“Aye aye, Captain.”

“I thought I was a commander.”

“To be honest, Mom, you remind me of General Patton sometimes.”

“I don’t find that amusing.”

He gave her a peck on the cheek and was out the door.

13

Dour, fussy, and disdainful. That’s what Plato Washburn thought of his managing editor. Byron Jenny was a pain in the ass. Still, the man knew his job inside and out. Plato could hardly fire him when his own knowledge of how to run a paper—even a small one—would fit into a shot glass with room to spare. Jenny was the soul of the
Rose Hill Gazette
. He’d been the managing editor for the past sixteen years. But that didn’t mean Plato had to like him.

Mr. Jenny, as everyone was urged to call him, was elegantly thin, in his midfifties, and never without his bow tie and pipe. The look was studied Hollywood fauxnewspaper kitsch, but nobody seemed to notice except Plato, who had never managed to have any sort of look at all. To Plato, “Mr. Jenny” sounded like the name of a gay hairstylist. If Mr. Jenny didn’t knuckle under to Mr. Plato’s wishes, he might have an opportunity to change careers.

Today the heat and humidity made Plato look as if someone had tried to suffocate him under a mattress. Mopping his brow with a crumpled white handkerchief as he trudged up the stairs to the
Gazette
’s conference room, Plato cursed the weather. “Might as well live in a rain forest,” he muttered, pushing open the heavy oak door. Everything in the old brick building reeked of history. It was all so self-consciously historic, Plato had the urge to burn it down.

Jenny looked up sharply at Plato’s entrance.

Ever since he had been a child, Plato had been determined to avoid disagreeable situations. His current life was a veritable Victorian tableau of where that kind of philosophy got you. Facing his problems for once, he’d decided to sit in on the biweekly editorial meeting, the place where reporters’ assignments were handed out. It was only the second time he’d attended, mainly because Jenny had made it admirably clear that his input wasn’t needed. Plato figured it was about time he sent his own message.

“Can I help you?” asked Jenny, watching Plato in that imperiously questioning manner of his, a look that no doubt sent lesser men running for their mommies.

“No, just continue.” He pulled up a chair and sat down at the long table.

Jenny twiddled a pen between his fingers, calculating how to handle this unwanted intrusion. “If you need to talk to me, why don’t you step into my office. I’m sure my secretary would be happy to get you a cup of coffee.”

“It’s too hot for coffee. I’m here to listen. As I said, just keep going as if I’m not here.” Plato wanted to kick him.

The other heads at the table shifted back and forth, as if they were watching a tennis match, their attention switching between Mr. Jenny and Plato, not sure what was happening.

“All right,” Jenny said finally, sitting back in his chair and pressing a match to the tobacco in his pipe. “What’s next?”

After Plato had bought the paper four years ago, the former owner had offered him some advice. “Let Byron have his head,” he said, speaking of the man as if he were a race horse. “He’s temperamental, but he’s a thorough-bred.” Since Plato had been looking for a professional situation that wouldn’t require a great deal of time and effort on his part, the idea that he had a ready-made editor who could run the shop at a profit appealed to him. Now, it irked him.

The
Rose Hill Gazette
appeared twice weekly—on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Clearly, organizing this sort of rag wasn’t rocket science. It was about time Plato got his hands dirty, learned the ropes firsthand. Byron Jenny was just one more person who treated Plato as if he existed only marginally—like a bug, or a fungus, more a nuisance than a necessary part of life. That was about to change.

“Who’s covering the funding for the new library?” asked Jenny, puffing away on his pipe, his manner entirely too urbane for the likes of Rose Hill.

“I am,” said a woman with a face like a slab of concrete.

Jenny nodded, then wrote something down. “Do we have any new information on the Runbeck homicide?” When no one responded, Jenny looked up. “Where’s Viv?”

“She got a phone call right before the meeting,” said the woman with the concrete face.

“From whom?”

“She didn’t say, but she raced out of here.”

Plato raised a finger. “I’ll be covering that story from now on.”

With glacial deliberation, Jenny turned his gaze to Plato. “Excuse me?” he said, removing the pipe from his mouth.

“I
said
, I’ll be covering that story from here on out. Inform Viv of the change.”

Jenny looked as if he’d been slapped. “You can’t cover that story. Your father’s just admitted to the murder.”

“My father,” said Plato, folding his hands patiently on the tabletop, “has just suffered a stroke. He’s confused.”

“But, it’s a conflict of interest.”

“I’m not a lawyer or a doctor. I publish a small-town paper. Newspapers take stands on issues all the time.”

“In the opinion pages.”

“Oh, come on, Byron, you know better than that. Newspapers can elect government officials, or get them fired. They shape opinion all the time simply by the way they report the news.”

“The news is based on facts. Journalists deal in fact, not opinion.”

“Fine. The facts are, my father is innocent. The Runbeck homicide will no longer be fodder for the bored and brutish among us.”

Before Jenny could offer more objections, the door opened. Viv, dressed in bleached blue jeans, her ubiquitous silver-tipped cowboy boots, and a tight pink tank top, ambled into the room. “Boy, have I got a story for you.” Seeing Plato, she stopped chewing her gum. “What’s he doing here?”

“I’ve decided to start sitting in on the editorial meetings,” Plato said casually. He could tell Jenny was about to rupture a vital internal organ. This was far better than kicking him.

“You mean,” said Jenny, his voice dialed up to full dour, “this is going to be a biweekly event?”

Plato gave a curt nod. “Now, Viv, why don’t you sit down and give us your news flash.” He could see she was just bursting to tell.

“Sure thing,” she said, looking a little hesitant. “It’s just . . . with you here, Mr. Washburn . . . I mean . . . I feel a little funny. It’s about your father.”

Plato stiffened. “What about him?”

Viv glanced at Jenny again, then pulled out a chair. Instead of sitting down, she rested a knee on top of it. “Well, see, I was just talking to Doug Elderberg. It seems that before Kirby Runbeck’s death, he made two deposits into a newly established savings account at the First Bank of Rose Hill. Fifty thousand dollars each time. That’s one hundred thousand dollars,” she said eagerly. “Where would a man like him get that kind of money?”

“Maybe he played the stock market,” said the cement-faced woman.

Viv’s eyes took on a fiery glow. “He closed the account the day before he died. Doug also told me that a month or so before his stroke, John Washburn withdrew fifty thousand dollars in cash from one of his accounts at Wells Fargo. Then, a week before the stroke, he closed out a bank CD for the same amount and took the money in cash. They can’t prove it yet, but they figure Washburn was paying Runbeck some kind of hush money.”

“Blackmail,” said Jenny, a note of triumph in his voice.

“That’s hogwash,” said Plato, his fist hitting the table. “I’m sure there’s another explanation.”

“The sheriff’s office thinks it was blackmail, too,” Viv continued. “They’ve got a B.C.A. guy down here from the Cities helping them with Runbeck’s murder, and he agrees. After John Washburn confessed to the murder, they went looking for a motive. They don’t have all the specifics yet, but they figure it’s only a matter of time before they do.”

“That should be our lead headline on Saturday,” said Jenny, glaring defiantly at Plato. “Runbeck obviously had some information on John Washburn that Washburn didn’t want made public. So he paid for Runbeck’s silence. Paid
twice
. I’ll bet Runbeck was hitting him up for more when Washburn went tilt. Killed him instead of paying him.”

Plato erupted out of his chair. “That’s enough! What you’re saying is pure speculation, with no basis in fact. I know my father, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s incapable of murder. I have no idea why he withdrew so much cash, nor do I know how Kirby Runbeck came by his money, but there’s no connection. If you run that headline on Saturday,
Mr
. Jenny, or if there’s mention of any of this in the paper, you’re fired. You’re all fired,” said Plato, slamming the door on his way out.

14

“I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Washburn,” said Deputy Sheriff Doug Elderberg. His eyes cast down, he turned and trotted back to his waiting squad car.

Mary stood in her front doorway and watched him drive away. Would this nightmare never end? John had been making good progress. One side of his body was still terribly weak, and his speech was garbled and slow, but the doctors assured her he was out of danger—for the moment. He was on medications that should help prevent another stroke, although nobody was issuing guarantees. If only his spirits would improve. But how could they? His brain function didn’t seem to be impaired. He knew he’d admitted to a murder, and the sight of police officers outside his hospital room door couldn’t have passed his notice.

Dragging herself back to the living room, Mary crumpled onto the couch to think. Doug had come by to inform her that her husband had withdrawn one hundred thousand dollars from two of their accounts at Wells Fargo in the last month, and that just before his death, Kirby Runbeck’s personal worth had grown by exactly the same amount. Doug wanted to know if Mary was aware of her husband’s actions. She assured him she wasn’t, that all their accounts were set up so that only one signature was necessary to make a transaction, but she wasn’t sure he believed her.

Tipping her head back against the cushion, Mary had a sinking feeling that the horrific events of the past few weeks were all her fault. John hadn’t killed Kirby—that was never an issue—but if he hadn’t, why admit to it? Mary had been with him the night he learned of Kirby’s death; she’d witnessed his reaction firsthand. His blood pressure must have shot through the roof. Almost immediately, he began complaining of a headache and weakness on his left side. “Oh, John,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “What have I done to you?”

The sound of a ringing phone interrupted her concentration. Instead of getting up to answer it, Mary let the machine pick it up. After a few clicks, she heard Bernice’s voice say, “I’m leaving the hospital for a few hours, Mom. Thought I’d let you know. Plato’s here now, so don’t feel you need to come down. The nurse took Dad to physical therapy a few minutes ago, and they’ve scheduled him for more tests. He’ll be busy most of the afternoon. So stay home and try to relax, okay? Bye.”

Thank God for her family, Mary thought. Whenever there was a crisis, no matter what the current squabbles, everyone rallied. They were good kids.
Kids,
she thought, smiling at the word. You knew you were old when your kids were middle-aged.

Mary’s thoughts turned to Milton. He didn’t have any children. When he was in his twenties and thirties, he’d lived a nomadic existence. He barely had any photos of himself from that time, with the exception of the ones she and John had taken at birthdays, anniversaries, or when he just happened to stop by. After all these years, it was still amazing to her that two brothers, only two years apart, raised in the same home, could be so different. John took life—and his responsibilities—so seriously, while Milton was a free spirit. Even so, both of them were successful professionally, and both seemed to have a nature that required a great deal of personal solitude.

Over the years, John had grown to be a pessimist, always seeing the glass half empty, while Milton was still as optimistic as the day they’d first met. Social scientists used to insist that the way a person was raised was everything. If anyone was to blame for a bad outcome, it was the mother. But now, it seemed the experts had changed their tune. Mary had recently read an article that said modern social scientists felt human beings were far more a product of their genetics than anything else. In the battle of nature vs. nurture, nature had won. So how did that explain Milton and John? It was a useful theory, blaming your faults on your DNA, but before Mary swallowed it whole, she wanted to wait for the next study.

Picking up a framed photograph on the end table next to her, Mary examined the snapshot of Bernice and Plato, aged four and seven, flailing like starlings in a small plastic pool in the backyard. Even then, they were already who they would become, if only she’d had eyes to see. Bernice was such a secure little child, very confident of her abilities. She knew what she wanted and she knew how to get it. Plato, on the other hand, always seemed to be walking around in a fog of indecision, unsure which toy to play with, which TV show to watch. He instinctively understood life’s infinite possibilities, and that knowledge seemed to confuse him into inertia. He was also far more concerned about pleasing his father than Bernice was. Both Plato and Bernice were unusually bright, even precocious, kids. Perhaps that’s why Mary had such a hard time raising them. Most of the time, Bernice behaved as if she didn’t need any help, while Plato was always awash in indecision. Again, two children raised in the same home, yet so different. And each one difficult to mother.

As she set the picture back down, she heard a car pull into the yard. Milton had returned. By the time she reached the kitchen, he’d come through the back door carrying a copy of the Wednesday
Rose Hill Gazette
under his arm.

“The police were just here,” she said, feeling a rush of emotions so conflicting they almost took her breath away.

Milton moved to the counter and set the paper down. “What did they want?” he asked, keeping his back to her.

“It was Doug Elderberg. He said John gave Kirby Runbeck one hundred thousand dollars before he died.”

Milton turned around. “Did he say why?”

“He didn’t know. He thought maybe I did.”

“Do you?”

“No!”

Seeing her distress, Milton put his arms around her. “The police asked me a bunch of stupid questions, too. But they’re fishing, Mary. They don’t know anything for sure.”

“Neither do I,” she said, breaking away from him.

Milton followed her into the living room. “Mary, I don’t mean to sound like a broken record, but I’m worried about you. It won’t do John any good if he gets better and you get sick again.”

“I’m not sick.”

“No, of course you’re not,” he said patiently. “But the stress you’re putting on yourself isn’t good for you.”

“John’s in that hospital bed because of me.”

“Ridiculous.”

“Is it?” She whirled around to face him. “When I found out about my cancer, it threw John into a panic. He went a little crazy, Milton, because of
me
. Everyone saw it. All those gallons of carrot juice, the hundreds of bottles of vitamin supplements. He was trying to control his world so that nothing else bad would happen.”

“I realize that, Mary.”

“That’s why he called you to come stay with us. He knew he couldn’t handle it on his own. He’s a proud man, Milton. He’s never lost control of his world before.”

“I was happy to help.”

She felt tears burn her eyes. “But you did more than help. While John was growing more and more distant, you were there. Why did you always have to be there, Milton? Why did you have to be so damnably kind?”

“Mary—” He stepped closer to her.

“I didn’t mean to fall in love with you. How did that happen?”

“I don’t know,” he said softly. He reached out to touch her, but she pulled away again.

“John must have found out.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Maybe he sensed it. Or—what if Kirby saw us? We were acting like teenagers, Milton. Picnicking in the woods. Going to motels.”

Taking hold of her firmly by the arms, Milton looked her square in the eyes. “Do you think I wanted to hurt my brother? Do you think I planned this? You needed your life back, Mary. All John wanted was to stay home and figure out new ways to cook seaweed. I didn’t mean to fall in love with you, either, but I did. I can’t take it back.”

“We should never have spent so much time together.”

“Maybe, but the doctors all said you needed fresh air and . . . hell, some fun in your life. You were getting better every day, but you needed to get out of the house. Somewhere along the line, John forgot how to have fun, Mary.”

“And you never did.”

He held her eyes. “What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” she said, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, crushing her in his arms. “I’m so sorry. This has gotten so complicated.”

“What are we going to do? I can’t leave John. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t do it now.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to. But don’t expect me to walk away either. Not when your life is in so much turmoil.”

She relaxed into his arms, welcoming his embrace, but knowing at the same time that she had to stop leaning on him. “What if Kirby did see us? Maybe that’s what he was blackmailing John about.”

“John would never give a jerk like him money to keep quiet about an affair, not even one his wife was having with his brother.”

“But this is a small town. You don’t know what it’s like here.”

“Look, if John had suspected anything, he would have come to me and knocked my block off.”

“Then why did he give Kirby that money?”

She could feel the muscles in Milton’s back tense. “I was alone with him for a few minutes today, Mary. I tried to get him to talk about it. I even gave him a pad and pencil and asked him some questions.”

“And?”

“Nothing. Whatever he’s thinking, he’s got it locked up inside him.”

“If it’s not us, then . . . what?”

Milton kissed her gently, then stood back. “My brother isn’t perfect, Mary, but the guy’s a rock. Always has been. When we were kids, I thought he was insufferable. He tried to be both a brother and a father to me, and it didn’t work. He was always so cool, so tough, and I tried to be just like him, but I’m sure he hated me sometimes, hated it when his little brother tagged along. I never understood John’s kind of integrity, Mary. Plus the guy seemed to be blessed with this incredible Lady Luck.” He turned around and smiled at her, adding, “He found you, didn’t he?”

She could feel her face flush.

“If anybody’s got skeletons in his closet, it’s me. John’s lived an exemplary life. I was the one who was the crazy kid.”

“Tell me about your skeletons,” she said, watching his reaction.

“Oh, no,” he said, the old twinkle back in his eyes. “A man of mystery is far more intriguing.”

“Really.”

He nodded, but his good humor was already fading. “We’ve got to find a way out of this mess, Mary.” He drew her into his arms again, speaking quietly into her ear, as if he was afraid to say the words out loud. “My brother isn’t a murderer. He must be protecting someone. And the only people he cares about that much are you, me, Plato, and Bernice.”

“Are you saying one of us killed Kirby?”

“We’ve got to face facts. If John isn’t guilty, one of us is.”