The Widow's Mate (15 page)

“So I took a shower,” he said to her in the bar, with Boleslaw on his second boilermaker and deep in the game.

“Did anyone see you?”

“No.”

“Was your daughter at home?”

“She's my daughter-in-law.”

“Okay, was your daughter-in-law home?”

“Maud, I should have told her.”

“Why did Horvath call?”

“What should I do?”

She sipped her beer. She was thinking. “That's the whole story?”

“So help me God.”

“Do you have your phone? Call Horvath.”

“What's his number?”

“I wrote it down. It's on a slip next to your phone in your apartment.”

“When we go back. I need another boilermaker.”

“So do I.”

Boleslaw had a third, but then Maud was his designated driver.

Later, in Luke's apartment, Maud stayed with him while he called Horvath.

7

Sylvia Beach wore her hair in a crew cut, dyed blond, and nuts to Marco, she liked it. She suspected he did, too, though he grumbled that if he had wanted a boyfriend he would have shot himself. Macho, macho, but that was his great attraction. Sylvia had taken care of her body, and no one was going to mistake her for a boy. Marco hadn't had two consecutive thoughts in his life, at least not ones he would put into words, and that was fine with Sylvia. She'd had her fill of brooding men.

Her first impulse when she got the e-mail from Brenda Kelly was to ignore it. She didn't erase it, though, and went back and read it a couple of times. Ever since she returned to Fox River, she had thought from time to time about looking up old friends, and, of course, Brenda would have been the first. Imagine her still plugging away at what they had done working for Wally Flanagan. Sylvia had learned how to be content doing nothing, but after hooking up with Marco, it was feast or famine, out on the town in his cool sports car, hitting the spots, and then a free-for-all in bed that could last for hours. Then she wouldn't see him for a week or more, no word, no explanation; he just assumed she would be available when he was free.

“Free from what?”

He just looked at her, and his eyes went dead.

“Forget I asked.”

“No, you forget you asked.”

All right, all right. That was another part of his attraction, the largest part, the danger. Who had ever grown up in Fox River and not heard stories about the Pianones? Not that she had really believed the stories back then; they were just part of local lore. Marco managed two of the river craft on which gambling went on twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Sylvia would have liked to try her hand, but hanging around where he worked was not Marco's idea of a good time.

“You think you'd win?”

“Somebody has to win.”

“That's right.” He grinned.

Sylvia decided he looked like Cary Grant. She was into old movies on TCM, and there had been a week of Cary Grant. In one of them, the actor had played someone like Marco, but back in the old days when the actor still had rough edges. Maybe that's what suggested the similarity.

Over a week had gone by with no word from Marco when Sylvia tapped out a reply to Brenda. She got an answer while she was still on the computer. Brenda was all excited to learn that Sylvia was back in Fox River. When could they get together?

Sylvia called K&S and asked for Brenda Kelly.

“Speaking.”

“Sylvia. What are you doing tonight?”

A squeal of delight. “Nothing! Where shall we meet?”

“I can pick you up there.”

And she did, at five o'clock. Brenda hopped into Sylvia's car and then just stared. “Your hair!”

“Like it?”

It was an odd way to start a conversation after so many years. How many? They stopped for a drink and spent the first hour figuring out exactly how long it had been. Fifteen years? Geez. Brenda had put on a little weight, but she looked good, and she bubbled and babbled as if she didn't have another friend in the world.

“No husband and family?”

“Not yet.”

They laughed. It seemed to restore them to the status they had both had years ago. It would only get dicey when Brenda got around to Wally. They moved from the bar to a table and ordered. A bottle of wine in the bucket next to their table, good food. It was a place Sylvia had come to with Marco. Not too smart. She didn't want to run into him here. He might think she was checking up on him. That's why, afterward, she suggested a visit to a casino, one Marco didn't manage.

They played the slots, sitting on stools amid a crowd of blue-haired ladies who fed the machines as if they were hypnotized. If this was gambling, she and Brenda decided to leave it to the addicts. So they drove back to K&S, where Brenda could get her car, and swore they would get together soon.

“We haven't even scratched the surface,” Brenda said.

“I know. You haven't told me about the men in your life.”

“That wouldn't take long.”

“I'll bet.”

A little sisterly hug, a peck on the cheek, and Brenda toddled off to her car. Sylvia watched her go, put her car in gear, and slid out of the lot. The years seemed to have taken no toll on Brenda, none at all; she was just the way she had been when they worked for Wally. By contrast, Sylvia felt that she herself had been around the block a few times.

*   *   *

“Not too smart,” Marco said when she told him about seeing Brenda.

“Why not?”

He moved his hands, shrugged, said nothing, Maybe someday she would learn how to read his sign language. She told him about going to the casino.

“How much did you lose?”

“Why do you care?”

“I wonder how much we won.”

Not too smart,
he had said, and that, along with the sign language, was a message. So she wouldn't see Brenda again. It had been a miracle that they had avoided talking about Wally Flanagan. Being with Brenda had brought back the innocence of youth, the way she had been before getting mixed up with Wally. Well, she had gotten mixed up with him, and then she got wind of the blonde in the Loop. What had she expected from a married man, fidelity? Then she watched what he was doing to the blonde's account, and suspicion grew. Of course, he helped her and the other girls with their investments, but he was making Sandra Bochenski instantly rich. So she followed them, she learned where the blonde lived, and she had a chat with the little guy who opened doors at the building.

“I'm going to miss her,” he said, his eyes going all over Sylvia.

She kept her shoulders back, she gave him her sweetest smile, and she learned about California. Well, by God, if Wally was taking off with a woman it was going to be her. And so it was.

When the news broke about Gregory Packer's death, Sylvia felt a chill. Every day there had been e-mails from Brenda, but they went unanswered.

“Maybe I ought to move,” she suggested to Marco.

“Why?”

She reminded him about Brenda. He nodded.

“There's a building in the Loop that would work,” she said.

She gave him the address, and two days later she moved. With her crew cut, she was a stranger to the doorman, and when she went by she looked right through him.

8

Since no relatives of Gregory Packer could be located, it had seemed that Melissa Flanagan would take responsibility, the man having been the occupant of her garage apartment when he had been slain. Then Father Dowling got a call from McDivitt, the undertaker, saying that the man's former wife would assume expenses for the funeral.

“Will you be burying him, Father?”

“I'm told he grew up in the parish.”

“The body hasn't been released yet. I'll let you know.”

The seniors in the parish center, for whom a funeral was, if not a festive occasion, at least a familiar one, were glad to hear that Packer would be buried from St. Hilary's. They were less than glad that Melissa had been bumped from the role of mourner in chief by Packer's former wife.

“They would have married, I'm sure of it,” Lenore Holland claimed.

“They were living together, weren't they?” Gino Bacci asked.

“Oh, shush. He lived in the garage.”

“What husband doesn't?”

Reproving backs were turned on Gino. This was no time for levity. In a sense, Gregory Packer had been one of them, and his death gave them the melancholy pleasure of contemplating their own.

“Let's go over to the church and say a rosary for the repose of his soul,” Mimi urged.

“That can wait for the wake.”

“When will it be?”

Edna assured them that Father Dowling would let them know.

*   *   *

Phil Keegan thought all this was going a little too far. “I suppose you'll want Cy to act as altar boy. He's the only survivor.”

Marie Murkin made a wet disapproving sound. “Speak well of the dead, Captain Keegan.”

“The more we find out about him, the harder that is.”

Phil brought Father Dowling and the housekeeper up to date on the investigation. It had been easy to establish the cause of death, but no weapon had been found, nor were there any clues to who had managed to climb those stairs and surprise Packer from behind. The blow had been to the back of the head.

“Crushed his skull,” Phil said, and Marie shuddered.

“Was it an intruder? The man was a stranger here. What enemies could he have had?”

“Oh, he had enemies enough. His second wife is dead, drowned in the pool at their home, and her nephew badgered the police to investigate, but there was nothing to investigate.”

“Are you saying the nephew is an enemy?”

“The police in Laguna Beach gave details to Cy that weren't in the newspaper accounts at the time. The woman's death made Packer the proprietor of the driving range the nephew had longed to have. I don't know if Packer was a golfer, but the nephew was. Is. You may have seen him on television playing in one of those celebrity pro-am tournaments. He couldn't make it as a pro because he had an awful temper. Broke clubs after a bad shot, or threw them into the woods. Once he whacked his caddy with a putter when the kid made a sound that caused him to miss a short putt. He was sued and settled out of court.”

“What's his name?”

“Lefty Smith. Funny name. He golfed right-handed.”

“Phil, you're not suggesting that Smith came to Fox River and struck down Gregory Packer, are you?”

“You wondered if he had any enemies.”

“Well, that's one, if he even counts,” Marie said.

“Don't forget he was in Joliet.”

“So was Earl Hospers,” Marie said indignantly.

“Have you made inquiries at the prison, Phil?”

“Not yet, Roger.”

That night, Father Dowling dropped by the Hospers'. Earl was in the backyard, planting begonias, and the priest went out to talk to him. “You heard about Gregory Packer, Earl?”

“Edna told me.”

“Had you known him?”

Earl looked up at the priest. “You mean in the place?”

“Yes.”

“I knew who he was.”

“Could what happened to him be connected to his time there?”

Earl patted down the earth around a just-planted begonia. “Nah. He was pretty popular. He gave golf lessons.”

“Is there a golf course at Joliet?”

“There's a driving range now. Thanks to Packer.”

“No enemies?”

Earl shook his head. It was obvious he did not enjoy this reminder of the long years away from his family. Father Dowling wanted to ask him if he had gardened at Joliet but decided not to.

“Oh, Earl has the touch,” Edna said when he went back to the house and commented on the begonias. She leaned toward Father Dowling. “His cell was full of plants. They called him the Florist.”

9

Amos Cadbury drove to South Bend for the Notre Dame alumni reunion, having first taken the precaution of securing a room in the Morris Inn. On one such return, he had endured several days in a residence hall and found himself unwilling to join in the more noisy evocations of past youth. The room had been far more comfortable than those he had occupied as a student, but the hubbub up and down the hall throughout the night made sleep difficult. Now, he checked in at the Morris Inn, then registered at the Alumni Center next door. Properly labeled, he ran into his old classmate Maurice Patrick in the lobby of the inn.

Patrick's name tag bounced off his enormous belly as he approached. He took Amos in his hairy arms to whisper in his ear, “We can be a twosome on what's left of Burke.” He stepped back. “Six thirty okay?”

“
A.M.
?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Wonderful.”

Amos had never played the new Warren course to the north of the campus. Burke, the original course, had been reduced to nine holes, residence halls having been built on the former back nine. No course he had played since could compete with Burke for his affection, but then he had been a better golfer in those days.

He had a drink with Maurice, who seemed already to have had several, and then suggested they stroll the campus, but Maurice unfolded the reunion program. Several seminars and presentations had been checked.

“There's a discussion on the future of Notre Dame in half an hour,” Maurice said, pointing to one of the checked items. “I wouldn't miss it.”

Amos missed it. He was more interested in the past of the university than in its future. Like the vast majority of alumni, he was generous to his alma mater, and he leafed through the literature that arrived from South Bend with alarming regularity; what had been a secluded, rural, and all-male campus when he was there seemed to be expanding in all directions, but for him the past tense defined Notre Dame. Walking from the inn in the direction of the Main Building with the great statue of Our Lady atop its golden dome, Amos was struck by the familiarity and unfamiliarity of the place. There were at least twice as many buildings as there had been in his day.