Loose Ends (2 page)

The tall brownstone office building sat in the midst of a decaying downtown. It seemed people preferred to shop in the strip malls or “The Marts” that were located where the urban sprawl had guided them, rather than in the quaint storefronts of yesteryear.

Mary pulled her car into the diagonal parking spot in front of her office and stepped out. She gazed up and down the nearly deserted street, enjoying the fact that the folks who usually wandered down Main Street were there for a purpose, rather than spoiled teenagers with time to kill. She also liked the atmosphere of the area and could feel the past generations of townsfolk who had walked down the street, looking for the new shoes for Suzie and the baseball mitt for Tommy.

Her gift allowed her to catch a glimpse of the past. Shadows of young boys dressed in dungarees and cotton shirts, pressing their noses against the storefront window, coveting the new Red Flyer wagon or Keds tennis shoes. Teenage couples making doe-eyes over a shared ice cream soda. A uniformed soldier hugging his girl good-bye before the bus carried him away to war.

Sometimes she wondered about the rest of their stories. Unfortunately, she only got part of the picture, unless she was able to research and follow the story through. These shadows walked in and out of her life like commercials during primetime. She had a glimpse of their lives, but not the whole story.

She unlocked the door to her office and switched on the lights. The answering machine light was blinking. That was always a good sign, unless it was a desperate telemarketer.

Just before she clicked the Messages button her phone rang.

“O’Reilly Investigations, Mary speaking,” she said.

“He’s dead!” the voice on the other end of the phone cried. “I came in this morning and tried everything - he’s just dead.”

Mary smiled, recognizing the voice of her two-door down neighbor, Rosie Pettigrew, a highly successful real estate broker.

“Calm down, Rosie,” she said, “I’m sure we can revive Mel.”

Mary pictured Rosie waving a lace handkerchief at her face while she clutched the phone in her other hand. Rosie was in her early sixties, but had the appearance and energy of a woman much younger. She was always outfitted as if she were expecting to take tea at the White House.

She had buried four husbands, raised five children and gone through three careers. She was extremely confident and looked to each new challenge as an adventure, except for one area of her life – computers.

She had named her computer Mel because – as she explained to Mary – anything that took this much time out a woman’s life, caused as many headaches and, on occasion, gave a woman pleasure beyond belief, had to be a man.

“No, Mary, I’m sure he’s dead this time,” Rosie cried, “Can you come over and have a look?”

Mary glanced at the blinking light on her answering machine and shook her head.

“Sorry, Rosie, I might actually have a client. Let me give you a couple of over-the-phone pointers and we’ll see if we can get Mel back to his old sexy self.”

Rosie sighed audibly. “Fine, we can try. But I tell you, Mary, he’s dead for sure this time.”

“Okay, first click on the button on the monitor – anything?”

Mary heard the click and waited.

“No nothing,” Rosie said, “That little green light isn’t even coming on.”

“Okay,” Mary said, “Now try turning the computer on again. Do you hear any sounds?”

“No, nothing at all,” Rosie responded after a moment.

“Okay – check the power strip. Is the switch in the “On” position?”

“Yes, the switch is on – but the red light on the power switch isn’t even lit up!” Rosie groaned with frustration.

Mary smiled.

“Okay, Rosie, I want you to unplug the power switch and plug your lamp into that socket.”

“What?”

“Just trust me on this one,” Mary replied.

“This is what I get for asking a ghostbuster for help,” Mary could hear Rosie muttering, “How the hell is plugging in a lamp going to fix my computer?”

Mary grinned and sat back in her chair.

“Oh no!” she heard Rosie cry out, “Now my lamp isn’t working!”

Mary could hear Rosie pick up the phone.

“Did you hear that?” Rosie cried, “Now my lamp isn’t working either! What’s going on?”

“Rosie, I want you to take a deep breath,” Mary said.

She could hear Rosie forcing herself to calm and breathe slowly.

“Now, go to your switchbox and fix the blown fuse.”

“My fuse?” Rosie asked, confused for a moment.

Then, a soft giggle, “Well, damn, of course, my fuse – how silly. Thanks, Mary.”

“No problem, Rosie,” Mary replied, “Have a great day.”

Mary hung up the phone with a smile on her face. “Gotta love small towns.”

The blinking light on her answering machine now demanded its turn. She sat on the edge of the desk, grabbed a memo pad and pen and pressed the button.

“
Hello, Miss…er...O’Reilly...um, this is…this is Susan Ryerson. I would like you to call me as soon as possible. My cell number is 815-555-8989. Please call me back today – during the day, or tomorrow, anytime. And please keep this call strictly confidential. Thank you
.”

Well, this ought to be interesting
, Mary thought,
the State Senator’s wife calling me for help. Perhaps the skeletons in his closet aren’t staying nice and quiet for him
.

She picked up the phone and dialed the number. It rang once and the voice that left the message anxiously answered.

“Hello, this is Mary O’Reilly, you left a message?”

“Yes, yes,” Susan Ryerson replied hurriedly, “Can we meet?”

“Sure, when and where?”

Susan named a small cafe in a nearby town and explained that she could be there in a few minutes.

“Okay, it’ll take me about an hour before I can meet you,” Mary answered, “Do you want to give me any information before we meet?”

“No, no,” she whispered. “I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.”

Mary hung up the phone and tapped the pencil thoughtfully against her chin. Well, this probably would be a job that actually paid. That would be a nice change.

She slipped around the desk, into the chair and clicked on her computer and waited for it to boot up. Once the computer was online, she retrieved her e-mail, deleted all the obvious spam and saved the messages she wanted to read. Except for one. She hesitated for a moment, rereading the sender information – Hamilton County Genealogical Society. Taking a deep breath, she clicked on the message. It opened on the screen.

“The information you requested on Lt. Earl Belvidere is as follows:

Birth Certificate – available

Record of Military Service – available

Notice of Death - available

Place of Burial – unavailable

Note: Only relatives of the deceased may view these records. If you are a relative, submit your name, mailing information and relationship to the deceased in a self-addressed stamped envelope. Please include $3.00 for each record you wish to have copied.”

The remainder of the message listed the address of the society.

Mary pulled out a piece of stationary and started to write – after all, he was living in her basement, surely that warranted some kind of legal relationship.

She began the letter.

To whom it may concern,

My dear departed great, great uncle Earl Belvidere...

A few minutes later with the completed letter in hand, she packed up her briefcase with a new yellow legal pad, a working pen and her cell phone. She glanced in the mirror, quickly applied some lipstick and headed out the door.

As she walked to the car, she was greeted by her next door neighbor, Stanley Wagner, who was seated on his favorite bench. Stanley had the appearance of a seventy year old, the mind of a thirty year old and the sense of humor of a teenager. He wore his round spectacles low on his nose and his eyebrows high on his forehead.

Stanley was the fifth generation owner of Wagner’s Office Supplies, affectionately referred to as Stanley’s by everyone in town. His store carried everything from bottles of ink for replenishing stamp pads to rubber thimbles for flipping through piles of paper. He carried every weight of stationery you could imagine and envelopes to match. He knew his customers by name, the kind of stationery and pens they favored, the width and length of tapes their office machines needed and the names of all of their spouses and children. But rather than reward this unique kind of old-fashioned service, most of Stanley’s customers had taken their business to the new office supply superstore that had just been built on the south side of town.

In spite of that, Stanley’s still opened every morning at seven. And even though the sixth generation of Wagners now ran the store, Stanley was outside every morning greeting the day.

“Morning, Mary,” Stanley said, looking up from the newspaper.

“Morning, Stanley,” she replied moving toward the car. “What’s the good news?”

“The new Police Chief has got some more ideas about our parking spaces in the downtown area,” Stanley answered, his eyes twinkling with glee.

Although Mary had never met the new Police Chief, she could just picture him: size 48 waist with a six-inch muffin-top, receding hairline, large red nose, small squinty eyes and an intelligence quotient that topped at double digits.

“So, what is Barney Fife up to now?” she asked.

Stanley chuckled. “Well, he’s thinking that parking meters would work well to bring more income to the city.”

Mary rolled her eyes.

“Has he even visited the downtown on a week-day?”

She looked down the nearly vacant street.

“Who does he think is going to be feeding all of the meters?”

“Well,” Stanley said thoughtfully, “there’d be me and you and Rosie.”

Mary chuckled. “You’re right Stanley – that’d be about it.”

She turned, shaking her head.

“I’ve got to go – I’ve got an appointment. But if you notice Barney Fife hanging around here trying to plant some parking meters, you can tell him where I think he ought to stuff…”

Stanley lifted his hand to stop her.

“I’d best just refer him to you, if I don’t want to spend some time in the hoosegow,” he chuckled.

Mary laughed. “Yes, I suppose that would be best.”

Mary pressed the accelerator pedal of her black 1965 MGB Roadster and shifted into fifth as she left the town of Stockton behind her. She loved the drive from Freeport to the small town of Galena. It was as if a bit of New England had been transplanted into the Midwest, complete with rolling hills and limestone bluffs. The highway twisted and turned through farmland and small towns, providing breathtaking vistas from the tops of the closest thing Illinois could claim as a mountain.

Red, gold and orange foliage seem to cover every spot that wasn’t a road or a building. The air blowing through the vents smelled of leaves burning and crisp air. This was Mary’s favorite time of year.

She drove through Tapley Woods, a lovely forested area on the outskirts of Galena, and then shifted down to fourth gear as she entered the city limits. Originally, Galena had been a mining town, but was now a trendy vacation spot for Chicagoans who wanted a retreat in the country. The streets were narrow, red brick-lined and hilly. The historic brick stores were now upscale and unique.