Dial M for Meat Loaf (12 page)

October, 1965

Dear Gilbert:

It’s a gloomy day here. A cold wind’s blowing the
leaves across the front yard. Kind of reminds me of when
I was a kid. It was always my job to rake the leaves, then
burn them. I like the smell of burning leaves. And, I suppose, it was a quick way to get rid of them. I like solutions that are quick and easy. But the job of raking was
endless. That’s what I feel like today. Like my job is endless. This may seem dumb to you, but for the past few
years, I’ve been trying to make up for the bad things I’ve
done. Okay, so maybe I look at life a little differently
than some. I admit I’m a maverick. But I’ve been sitting
at the kitchen table for the past hour, staring at an empty
bottle of Coke, trying to figure out what went wrong.
Life was going so good, man, but I’ve hit a real bump in
the road. And I don’t know what to do.

It’s Laura. We got problems, stuff I’ve never told you
about. Something’s gotta give before I go tilt. Last night I
got so mad at her, I kicked a hole in the bedroom wall.
And then I left. Took my car and went into town. I had
to cool off before I did something I’d really regret. When
I got back, she’d locked herself in the bathroom. Wouldn’t
come out. God, she makes me insane. I had to break the
door down.

I don’t know why I’m writing you about this. It’s not
like you can do anything to help. But there’s no one else I
can talk to. Laura’s sister is useless. She’s nosy, and she
hates my guts. I don’t know what I ever did to her. Her
husband’s totally henpecked, so anything I say to him
would go right back to her. And anyway, I don’t like to
tell people about our problems. That’s our business.

Tomorrow I hit the road again. In some ways, I hate to
leave, in other ways, I know I’ve got to get out of here.
But more than anything, I’m scared. I’ve tried with
Laura. I want to be a good husband, but sometimes it’s
so hard. I feel that same old anger taking hold of me, the
way it has all my life. Anger has always been my demon,
man. That’s why I’ve got to go.

J. D.

20

Sophie had just bent over the drinking fountain in the hallway outside her office at the
Times Register
tower when a gray-haired man in a brown and tan state police officer’s uniform stepped out of the stairwell and headed in her direction.

“Say there,” he called, glancing at the numbers on the doors as he hurried along, stopping in front of Sophie’s. “I’m looking for Sophie or Rudy Greenway.”

He had a clipped, military bearing, his voice a low growl.

“I’m Sophie,” she said, taking in his solid features, curious to know why he’d come.

“My name’s Diamond. Frank Diamond. Could I talk to you a moment? It’s important.”

“Sure,” said Sophie, opening the door for him. She followed him inside and motioned to a chair. As she sat down behind her desk, she wondered if his visit had something to do with John Washburn. “What can I do for you?”

Diamond leaned forward, clamping his large hands between his knees. “I’m here because of a poster I saw yesterday afternoon at a nursing home up near Fergus Falls. It was a snapshot of a man and woman, with a note attached that said if anybody recognized the man in the picture, would they please call you or Rudy. There was a phone number under the name of the paper. I assume Rudy is your—”

“He’s my son.”

“I see.” He sat back in the chair and crossed his legs. “Well, the fact is, Ms. Greenway, I think I may know the man in the photo. I assume you’ve left these posters all over the state for a good reason.”

“Yes,” she said. His stern tone made her wonder if she’d done something illegal.

“Care to share your reason with me?”

She didn’t want to lie to a cop, but she didn’t want to advance a theory that hadn’t been proven. She settled for something in between. “He’s . . . a friend, a man I haven’t seen in years. I’m trying to locate him.”

“Why?”

“Well, you see . . . he was married to another friend of mine. It was a long time ago.”

“And?”

“He took off on her.”

Diamond nodded. “I figured it was something like that.”

“How do you know him?” asked Sophie, hoping her question would put an end to his interrogation.

“I work for the LaPierre County sheriff’s office, Ms. Greenway, but when I was a young man, I worked for the Hayward County sheriff’s department in Claremont, Wisconsin. I believe the man in the photo was a neighbor of mine. His name was Glen Taylor.”

“Do you remember what he did for a living?”

“He was a salesman.” Watching her reaction, he added, “If I’m not mistaken, that’s exactly what you wanted to hear.”

“It fits,” she said. “Was he married?”

“Yes, to a wonderful woman. Her name was Bliss Milkowski. Bliss and I had known each other since first grade. She married Glen in May of ’68. I was the best man.”

With that kind of connection, it wasn’t likely he’d made a mistake about the snapshot. “Do you still keep in contact with either of them?”

“I haven’t seen Glen in almost thirty years.”

“What about Bliss?”

“She’s dead.”

It took an effort of will, but Sophie’s face remained blank, her eyes steady. “How did she die?”

“She was murdered, Ms. Greenway. In 1974. We never found the man—or men—who did it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I was the officer first called to the scene. The perp took everything that wasn’t nailed down. Jewelry. Cash. Electronics. Even the toaster. He tied her up and strangled her in her bed.” Diamond crossed his arms over his chest, still clearly bothered by the memory.

“Where was Glen when it happened?”

“Out of town. On the road. He got back the day after she died. I’ve never seen a man so broke up.” He leaned forward again, shaking his head. “A couple of weeks after it happened, I found him over by Caribou Lake. He was sitting on a fallen tree trunk with a gun to his head. Wanted to kill himself. I talked him out of it, but it wasn’t easy. Took nearly the whole night before he gave me the gun and let me drive him home. I got to know him pretty well that night, Ms. Greenway. He was never the same after Bliss died. He put the house on the market the day after her funeral and left town as soon as it was sold. I never saw him again.”

“Did you try to keep in touch?”

“What was the point?”

Sophie hated to ask the next question, but she felt she had no choice. “This may sound cold, but did you check out Glen’s alibi? You said he was on the road. Were there any witnesses?”

“Yes,” said Diamond. “Believe me, friend or no friend, it was the first thing I checked out. Not because I thought Glen was a bad guy, but in murder cases, we always look hard at the people closest to the victim. My superior thought Glen was guilty, alibi or no alibi, but I disagreed. I think it’s pretty clear it was a robbery that turned ugly. From what I remember of the case, Bliss wasn’t supposed to be home that night. She planned to stay with a girlfriend in town.”

“Did Glen and Bliss live out of town?”

He nodded. “In the country. Like I said, I was their closest neighbor.”

So much of this story reminded her of what she’d found out about Morgan and Laura Walters. “Tell me, what did you think of Glen? As a person? A husband?”

Diamond pressed his lips together. “You think he ran out on your friend, huh?”

She nodded.

“Well, it’s not consistent with the man I knew. He was a decent guy. A little wild sometimes. Liked to take the path less traveled, if you know what I mean, but I know he loved Bliss. She told me so a hundred times. Said he always cooked the meals when he was home, always brought her gifts if he had to be gone a long time. He pampered her like crazy and she thought he walked on water. I know she missed her family, felt pretty lonely every now and then, but she had her work to keep her busy.”

“What did she do?”

“She was an artist. A painter. She hoped that one day, she’d sell some of her canvases. See, Bliss and I were both originally from Detroit, which is where Bliss’s family lived. After Glen married her, they moved to Claremont.”

“Why did they move?”

“Detroit was too far away from Glen’s route. It just made more sense for them to live in Claremont. Houses were cheap. So was land. Glen didn’t like big cities. Can’t say that I blame him.”

“So you saw nothing . . . dangerous about him?”

Diamond held her eyes. “You really don’t like him, do you.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement. “He must have hurt your friend bad.”

“He did,” said Sophie. She saw by the way he shifted in his chair that he was getting restless. “Look, I really do appreciate you stopping by. Before you go, let me ask you one last thing. Do you remember if Glen Taylor had a tattoo?”

“Sure. He had one on his upper arm. Can’t remember which side, but it was a snake with a single red eye.”

Sophie had forgotten the red eye part, but she remembered it now—remembered staring at it the day she’d gone riding with him.

“Did your man have a tattoo?”

“Yes.”

“A snake?”

She nodded.

“Then he must be the same fellow. Was he using a different name when he married your friend?”

Again, she nodded.

“Mind telling me what it was?”

“Morgan Walters.”

“Walters, huh? Never heard of him.” Rising from his chair, he continued, “I’m sorry I can’t be more help. I came down to the Cities to visit my grandson, so I thought maybe I’d stop by while I was in town and see what that poster was all about. All I can say is, the man I knew wasn’t the kind of guy who would just leave a woman, walk off and never come back. But, you’re putting so much effort into it, I hope you find him.”

“Thanks,” said Sophie. “I hope so, too.”

21

Angelo sat in his rental car and waited for Bernice to come out of the hospital. The Washburn family had taken to visiting John now in shifts. Bernice took her turn in the afternoons. She hadn’t confirmed Angelo’s theory, but he figured nobody in the family wanted the old man to be alone ever again. Someone had to be in the room to protect him—from the police and from himself—at all times. There would be no more chicken scratches on slips of paper admitting to a murder. If no further admissions were allowed, Bernice said the family lawyer would demand that the note be thrown out as evidence. If that didn’t work, plan B was to say that John wasn’t in his right mind when he made the admission. Since no one could deny his impairment, that meant he wouldn’t be legally bound by anything he’d said.

However it worked out, Angelo figured John was off the hook for Runbeck’s murder. He was guilty, of course, but that had little meaning if the police had no proof.

And that’s where Angelo came in. He’d saved John Washburn’s neck. Not that he could tell Bernice what he’d done. He’d lied to her the other night, told her he hadn’t been inside her parents’ house. The truth was, he had. It was a simple favor from one guy to another. If Angelo ever needed to call in his marker, he would, but for now it was enough to know that he’d saved Bernice and her family a shitload of grief.

Pulling the book he’d lifted from the old man’s study out of his glove compartment, he opened the cover and read the title page.
Total Resistance.
It had originally been published by the Swiss government, released during the Second World War. The point was clear enough. The government wanted the citizenry to fight against Nazi aggression with every means at their disposal. In essence, it was a terrorist manual. A small American press had reprinted the book, and that’s where John must have gotten his hands on it. It sold mostly to survivalists and white supremacists. The question Angelo wanted answered was why did John have a copy of it in the first place? Was he
that
kind of guy?

Angelo found a recipe for nitrogen tri-iodide midway into the book, the substance the police suspected had been used to blow up Kirby Runbeck’s truck. How had Angelo found out that bit of information? He smiled at his reflection in the rearview mirror, lifted his hand to smooth the side of his wavy black hair. He prided himself on knowing how to get information. Sometimes it took doing favors for the right person; sometimes it took money. Angelo’s father had given him one good piece of advice. Everything in life came with a price tag. Angelo could have anything he wanted if he was willing to pay. In his fifty-two years, that advice had never failed him.

If the police had discovered
Total Resistance
in John’s study, his fate would have been sealed. By removing the book before the police arrived to search the house, Angelo had saved the old man’s ass. It was a good thing the Washburn family didn’t lock their doors; otherwise Papa Washburn would have to recover from his stroke in a prison hospital. Angelo couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t burned the book, or at the very least, tossed it in a dumpster behind the Piggly Wiggly. It was a mistake that could have cost him his freedom. But then, before Runbeck’s death, Washburn didn’t seem to be a man who was thinking straight.

Angelo had met him for lunch the day before Runbeck’s untimely demise—if you could call it lunch. The restaurant/vitamin store/sprout emporium served nothing but rabbit food. Kefir. Tofu. Organic cheese and whole wheat sandwiches. The smell of ozone from the air purifier was so strong, it nearly gagged him. Everyone in the place seemed to know Washburn. They called him Mr. Mayor, and smiled broadly. He was clearly a well-loved man in his hometown. Good for him. He still had an enemy. Halfway through the meal, Runbeck had shoved his way through the front door, then stomped up to the counter and demanded his money back on some herbal remedy for thinning hair. Everyone in the place heard him. They stopped what they were doing to see how the clerk would respond.

That’s when Angelo noticed a change come over John Washburn. He’d been friendly and relatively relaxed as Angelo explained why he’d come to town. But as soon as Runbeck entered the room, his face flushed and his eyes narrowed. For all practical purposes, he stopped listening to what Angelo was saying. Stopped eating. Started fidgeting with his napkin. Playing with his water glass. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to identify Runbeck as the cause of the old man’s discomfort. If Angelo had to define it, he’d say that John’s reaction was a mixture of fear and anger. And when Runbeck sauntered up to the table, stuffing the money the clerk had returned to him into his back pocket, Angelo sensed that John wanted to get up and knock the old guy on his ass.

Instead, he sat on his hands and didn’t move. Before Runbeck could issue his opening salvo, Washburn said, “I thought you were coming by the house yesterday.”

Runbeck just smiled, showing his crooked yellow teeth. “Did you?” he said.

“That’s what you told me.”

“Well, I guess I changed my mind.” He glanced at Angelo. With his skinny chicken neck, his overalls, and his gray stubble, he looked like one of the Clampetts. “Those letters you lent me are pretty interesting. I think I’ll hang on to them for a while longer.”

“That wasn’t our agreement.” Washburn looked as if his entire body were being squeezed in a vise.

Runbeck casually picked up one of the carrot sticks from John’s plate and said he’d catch him later.

As he drifted out the front door, Angelo asked who the old guy was.

All John would say was that he was a loathsome creature, a lowlife with no principles or human feeling, and if there was a God, he’d be struck dead before he reached his truck. Washburn was shaking, the hatred in his eyes unmistakable. Angelo decided there was more to the story than Papa Washburn was willing to tell, and since he had a personal connection to the family now, he decided to pay Kirby Runbeck a little visit later in the afternoon.

He found Runbeck in his front yard, picking up broken tree branches from a recent storm. Angelo got right to the point. What the hell was he doing messing with John Washburn? Runbeck denied he was messing with anybody, but Angelo could tell he’d startled the old guy. For one thing, he was probably twenty-five years younger and seventy-five pounds heavier than Runbeck. John Washburn might have the body of an undernourished pencil, but Angelo’s girth was menacing. He liked it that way.

Angelo had grown up in Brooklyn in a tough Italian neighborhood. If you didn’t show a little bravado, whether you felt it or not, you got your face kicked in on a daily basis. He still liked to swing his weight around, especially when it came to assholes like Runbeck. So he threatened him. Told him that if he didn’t leave Washburn alone, he’d regret it. He made it sound ominous. And then he asked Runbeck if he understood. He wanted to hear the old guy croak out an affirmative. As it turned out, Runbeck was a typical bully. When faced with a situation that called for courage, he caved. Angelo never laid a finger on him, but when Angelo left, Runbeck was about to piss his pants.

As Angelo sat in the car now, still waiting for Bernice to show, he realized that life had been good to him. He wasn’t a handsome man, but he’d never wanted for female company. His money and his sports car talked louder than his paunch and his big nose. But life had been a bowl of cherries for so long that he was sick to death of cherries. The kind of woman he attracted wasn’t the kind of woman he wanted to settle down with. And at fifty-two, Angelo felt he was finally ready to settle down.

His mother had pressured him his whole life to find a good woman, buy a house in the Hamptons, and make grandchildren. But that had never appealed to him. The grandchildren part still didn’t. But the good woman . . . that did. Especially now that he’d found the proverbial diamond in the rough. Bernice wasn’t somebody he could let get away. No matter how hard she fought against it, they were fated to be together. It was the romance of the century. They were star-crossed lovers. In another life, they’d gone down on the Titanic, locked in each other’s arms, that song by Celine Dion playing in the background. Funny how love worked. Bernice wasn’t a looker, like the other women he’d dated. But she was smart. And clever. And beneath that gangly, intellectual exterior beat a heart as passionate as his own. She was Lara to his Dr. Zhivago. Scarlett O’Hara to his Rhett Butler. Rhea Perlman to his Danny DeVito.

Angelo wasn’t the kind of man to let anything stand between him and what he wanted. Like his father said, you just had to pay the price. And where Bernice was concerned, he was willing to ante up whatever it took.