Grave Designs (11 page)

I stared at the ceiling, rolled on my side, and then back on my back. “Damn,” I mumbled, and got out of bed. I stepped over Ozzie, went back to the living room, picked up the postcard, and walked slowly back to the bedroom.

Chapter Twelve

I saw the article in the
Tribune
on the ride downtown Wednesday morning. On page three of the City section:

ZOO TO GIVE POPULAR
HIPPO PROPER BURIAL

A spokesperson for the Brookfield Zoo announced yesterday afternoon that the zoo had decided to bury Gus, the popular hippopotamus who died last Saturday, at Wagging Tail Estates, a pet cemetery on the southwest side of Chicago.

“This way Gus's many fans can have the opportunity to pay their last respects to him,” announced Harmon Brown, assistant keeper of the suburban zoo.

Final funeral arrangements have not been announced.

“We expect the funeral will take place a week from Saturday,” explained Maggie Sullivan, owner of Wagging Tail Estates. “It will be a simple and tasteful ceremony. That's the way Gus would have wanted it.”

The hippopotamus died three weeks after his 41st birthday. A team of veterinarians is scheduled to perform an autopsy later in the week. Zoo officials say he was one of the oldest hippopotamuses in captivity.

I was pleased for Maggie's sake, and for mine. The funeral would be a boost for business, and it would keep her mind off the grave robbery, at least until after the funeral.

I spent most of the morning in the courtroom of Judge Harry Wilson on the twenty-second floor of the Federal Courts building. It was the morning motion call, and there were about two dozen lawyers scattered around the courtroom waiting for their cases to be called. Some were skimming their pleadings, some reading newspapers. I took a seat in one of the rows of benches in the gallery. While I waited for my case to be called, I read through Graham Marshall's codicil again. I compared the four dates specified for delivery of flowers to the grave with the four dates of the newspaper articles listed in code on the computer printout. In each case, the flowers were to be delivered one day before the anniversary of the newspaper article. I was baffled for a moment, but then the two sets of dates lined up. It was obvious.

The motion call started at 9:30 a.m. My case was finally called at 10:30 a.m. The arguments lasted fifteen minutes, and the judge granted my motion, ordering my opponent to produce certain medical records within fifteen days.

I called my office from the phone outside the courtroom.

“Any messages?” I asked.

“Benny wants you to meet him for lunch at one at the Bar-Double-R.”

“Tell him I'll be there. Do you have Cindi Reynolds's phone number?”

I called Cindi. She said she could meet me down at her condominium pool in fifteen minutes.

“I got the swimsuit layout,” she said. “They're going to shoot it down at the Indiana Dunes tomorrow. So I have to catch some rays.”

***

Cindi was on a chaise longue on the pebbled-concrete deck of the condominium pool. Two kids were splashing and shouting in the shallow end of the pool, and an elderly man wearing a black bathing cap and green goggles was swimming laps in slow motion. A middle-aged woman in a red one-piece swimsuit was sitting on a chair on the far side of the pool, smoking a cigarette and reading a paperback.

Cindi was wearing a white string bikini and sunglasses. I pulled up a deck chair and sat down beside her. The sun felt good.

“You models sure have a tough life,” I said.

Cindi smiled. “It's a swimsuit layout for a winter resort-wear catalogue. They told me to get a little sun this morning. No more than an hour. All the models have to meet at this motel down in Indiana tonight. They'll start the shooting tomorrow. It might take two days.”

“What's it for,” I asked, “Frederick's of Hollywood?”

She giggled. “Kind of skimpy, huh?”

I nodded. The bikini top ended just above the nipples, and the bikini bottom was cut high on her hips and scooped low below her belly button.

“They told me no visible tan lines. I wasn't going to lie out here naked. The catalogue is for Carsons, I think. I can't believe they'll have me pose in anything skimpier than this.”

“You're probably safe,” I said.

Cindi leaned back and put on her sunglasses. “So, what's up?”

“I'm not sure,” I said, frowning. “I found a list filed under Canaan at Abbott and Windsor. It turned out to be a code for newspaper articles.”

“Newspaper articles?”

“Four of them. All from 1985. I read the articles last night.”

“And?”

“And you're in one of them.”

“Me?” Cindi raised her sunglasses. “What do you mean?”

“The article about the Ms. United States Pageant. The same one you have in your scrapbook. It was one of the four articles listed in code on the sheet.”

“Really?” Cindi sat up.

I nodded. “Along with three other articles having nothing to do with you or beauty pageants.”

“Was it Graham's list?”

“It looks that way, but I don't know for sure. His secretary remembered that he worked on something called Canaan back in 1985. But she doesn't know what it was. She had the firm check the files and they turned up just one document. The page with the codes. You can't tell who compiled the list.”

“Is it handwritten?”

“No. A computer printout.”

“Is it run on an Abbott and Windsor computer?”

“I don't think so,” I said. “At least not on the firm's main computer. I've got a hunch, though, and I'm going to get back there tomorrow to see if I can turn up anything.”

I checked my notes. “What do you know about two businessmen named Carswell or Framingham? Did you know them?”

She shook her head. “Nope.”

“Congressman Barnett? Or a Park Ridge couple named Byron?”

“No. Are they in the other articles?”

I nodded. “The two businessmen died in a plane crash. Private plane. Congressman Barnett's autobiography got published with a big typo on the first page. And the Byrons found a lot of money in an old filing cabinet they bought at a police auction.”

Cindi frowned. “
Those
were the other articles?”

“Yep.”

“What's my article doing in there?”

I shrugged. “I have no idea. But those articles are just about the only clue I have so far.”

“And you think they have something to do with this pet, Canaan?”

“I think it's all related somehow.” I told her about the codicil.

“I don't get it, Rachel.”

“I don't either. But match up the dates. Your article appeared on July twenty-eighth. According to Marshall's codicil, two dozen roses are supposed to be placed on the grave on July twenty-seventh. It's the same with the other three articles. The roses are supposed to be delivered the day before the anniversary of the date the articles appeared.”

“Why the day before?”

“That had me stumped at first. But think about it. Each newspaper article appeared the day
after
the event it described. He wanted the roses delivered on the date the event actually occurred. The beauty contest occurred on July twenty-seventh, not the twenty-eighth. As I said, the dates match up. It can't be just a coincidence. Besides, the title of that computer page was Canaan log. And whatever is buried in that grave was named Canaan.”

Cindi stared at the pool. “Okay,” she finally said. “But what's the relationship between those events and the pet's grave?”

“I don't know. That's why I came back to see you. Maybe you can help. Did you know Marshall before 1985?”

“No. I didn't start seeing him until the summer of 1986.”

“Are you sure he never talked to you about anything personal?”

Cindi reached down for her Virginia Slims. She took out a cigarette and lit it with a butane lighter. I waited. She exhaled slowly and turned to me.

“I wasn't totally honest with you yesterday,” she said. “I mean, I had just met you and all.” She took another drag on her cigarette. “Graham and I weren't close at all the first year. Strictly business. But during the last six months he started opening up a little, sharing things with me. That article about the plane crash-well, it reminded me of something Graham told me a couple of months ago.”

“What was it?”

“His sister. She used to be in beauty pageants too. The way he talked about her, I guess she must have been really beautiful. She was two years older than him.”

“What happened to her?”

Cindi shook her head. “God, it was terrible. Graham was just eighteen when it happened. During the summer before he started college. It was 1955, I think.” Cindi paused to stub out her cigarette. “That summer his mother and sister were killed on their way to a beauty pageant down in Springfield.”

“In a plane crash?”

Cindi shook her head. “Not
in
a plane.
By
a plane. A small private plane had engine trouble. The pilot tried to land it on the highway. He landed it right on top of their car as they were going down the highway.”

“My God.”

Cindi sighed. “Yeah. Everyone was killed. Can you imagine that? Getting killed on a
highway
by a plane dropping out of the sky?”

“Graham told you all this?”

She nodded. “And more. I guess his father never recovered from the shock of it. His dad started drinking heavily that summer and died of a heart attack that winter. It really shook him up. First he loses his mother and his sister. Then he watches his dad disintegrate before his eyes.”

“Was she his only sister?”

“Yes. And I could tell he loved her very much. The night he told me—well, he was really choked up by the time he reached the end.”

I was genuinely touched by the story, more than I would have imagined. The Graham Marshall I knew—the arrogant and domineering senior partner—bore no resemblance to the boy who lost his entire family during his eighteenth year back in 1955.

Cindi wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “He never talked about it again. And I was actually kind of relieved. There was one part of the story that—I don't know—kind of made me uncomfortable.”

“What was that?”

Cindi shrugged. “Maybe I read too much into it. His sister. Her name was Cynthia.”

I said nothing.

“He didn't seem to see the connection,” she continued. “God, Freud probably makes everyone too suspicious. I mean, I don't think Graham was into some kind of incest trip, you know. It's just that I saw the connection immediately—another beauty queen named Cynthia.” She shook her head. “I've had some weird requests from my clients. But I wasn't prepared to play his sister for him. I couldn't have handled that number. But, like I say, he never brought it up again.”

We were both quiet for a while. “What about the beauty contest you were in?” I asked. “What exactly did he say about it?”

Cindi held out the pack of Virginia Slims. “Want one?”

“No, thanks. I'm trying to quit.”

“Me too. I quit in January. And in March. And in May.” She paused to light a cigarette. “As I told you, it was strange the way he brought it up so often. But the first time he did, he said something really weird.”

“What?”

She blew out a thin stream of smoke that disappeared in the soft breeze. “It was one night after we were, uh, after we were done. Last summer, I think. Graham was standing in front of the mirror in the hallway, knotting his tie. He asked me out of the blue, ‘Do you think luck had anything to do with it?' ‘With what?' I said. ‘The beauty pageant,' he said, ‘the other girl winning, you finishing third runner-up.' It sort of caught me off guard. I hadn't really thought much about luck one way or the other. And I was really surprised that he—that Graham Anderson Marshall—would even know who the third runner-up was. Or the winner, for that matter. I sort of shrugged and said, ‘I guess it was the luck of the draw.' Well, he turned around and looked at me, his eyes kind of sad. And then he said—and I won't forget these words—he said real slowly, ‘It
was
the luck of the draw. I'm sorry about that now. But then again, maybe it brought me you.' Weird, huh?”

“That is odd,” I finally said. For a moment I had thought I was on to something, but now I was even more confused.

“Did you enjoy working for him?” she asked.

“Not really,” I said. “He was a tough bastard. Very demanding. When he wanted something done, you had to do it. Right away. No excuses. I don't think he ever got used to a woman litigator.”

“Did he ever try anything with you?”

“Nope. He wasn't like that.” I paused. “In that way he was different. With a lot of male lawyers, particularly partners, there's that undercurrent of sex. The way they look at you when they talk, the jokes they make, the hand on the shoulder.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Cindi asked.

“Not now.”

“Did you just break up?”

“A few months ago.”

“I could tell,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“You have your guard up. He must have hurt you.”

“He did.”

“Another woman, huh?”

I nodded.

“Creeps,” she said. “They're like little boys in a candy store. Can't keep their hands off the goodies.”

“How about you?” I asked.

“Me?” Cindi smiled and shook her head. “It would be like a busman's holiday. Believe me, I treasure the nights alone. Away from them.” She took a drag on her cigarette. “Maybe once I stop all this, maybe then.”

I watched the old man swimming laps, his arms slowly heaving out of the water one by one.

“Were you ever married?” Cindi asked.

I shook my head.

“How did you manage?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You're smart, great-looking, nice body. You must have to fight them off.”

I shrugged. “For me it's been the wrong guy at the right time or the right guy at the wrong time.”