Grave Designs (12 page)

“I don't get it.”

“Well, you start off back in high school looking for someone who's cool,” I said. “Coolness is what counts. He has to dress cool, talk cool, and be in the in crowd. I had one. The quarterback of the high school team.”

“Me too,” said Cindi.

“Good-looking, great body, tiny brain.”

“And lots of hand jobs.”

We both laughed.

“And then you get to college and you want an intellectual,” I said. “An intellectual soulmate. Someone you can discuss Sartre with, someone who believes that America is a totalitarian fascist dictatorship. You know the type. And then, if you're lucky enough to outgrow that, you finally realize that what you really want is someone who's—well, who's nice.”

Cindi smiled. “Preferably a sweet guy with a cute tush.”

“Yeah. A nice guy with a great bod who prefers Robert Lowell to
Car & Driver.”

“You like Robert Lowell too?”

“What do you mean too?” I asked.

“Graham Marshall loved one of his poems.”

“You and Marshall read poetry together?”

“Not exactly. Graham brought me an anthology of poems. It was part of his Pygmalion number. He read me ‘For the Union Dead.' Then he told me all about Colonel Robert Gould Shaw. Do you know who Shaw was?”

“Not really,” I said. “Except that he was a white Civil War soldier who headed an all-black regiment for the North.”

“Marshall told me all about him. It's a great story.”

“Tell me,” I said.

“Shaw was a real Boston blueblood. A New England aristocrat. When the Civil War started, he enlisted. In the spring of 1863 they made him a colonel and asked him to head up the first all-black regiment. He took his blacks to Folly Island that summer. Isn't that perfect: Folly Island. The Union troops attacked Fort Wagner, and Colonel Shaw and his black troops led the charge. Shaw was wounded going up the hill. He reached the top, waved his sword, and died. More than half of his troops died with him. They were all buried—Shaw and his soldiers—in a shallow trench near the sea. A couple of years later the sea washed away the trench and all the bodies, including Shaw's.”

“Didn't they build a statue honoring him in Boston?” I asked.

Cindi nodded. “After the war ended, a group of Boston citizens raised money to build the monument. To Colonel Shaw and his men. It took them almost thirty years to do it. I've seen the monument. It's really beautiful.” Cindi stubbed out her cigarette. “Isn't it an incredible story?”

“It is,” I said.

“And what was just as incredible was the gift Marshall gave me.”

“What?”

“Come on upstairs and I'll show it to you,” she said, checking her watch. “I've been out here long enough already.”

***

“I'm supposed to meet a guy for lunch,” I said to Cindi as we stepped out of the elevator. “Just a friend. From Abbott and Windsor. Why don't you join us? You'd love him. He's really a character, and he knows something about the case.”

She unlocked her front door and looked at me.

“I'm serious,” I said. “Grab some clothes and come on. It'll be fun.”

Cindi paused, her hand on the doorknob. Then she shrugged and said, “Why not? Maybe I will.”

She walked into her bedroom, untying the top of her string bikini. She came back into the living room a few minutes later, wearing a pair of lavender bikini panties and a silk blouse which, unbuttoned, wafted open behind her. She was carrying a poster board about the size of a newspaper.

“Marshall gave me this,” she said. “I keep it in my bedroom.”

Dry-mounted on the poster board was the front page of the
Boston Commonwealth,
dated May 29, 1863. It consisted of ten columns of small, densely packed type with no illustrations.

“I don't know
where
he found it,” she said, buttoning her blouse. “But look at this story.” She pointed. “I'll go grab some jeans and sandals.”

The story was in the middle of the page:

PRESENTATION OF COLORS
TO THE FIFTY-FOURTH REGIMENT

Thursday the 28th of May was a day to be remembered by all Massachusetts men who love liberty and rejoice in its triumphs: for on that day the great stigma of prejudice against color was officially removed.

Led by their valiant young commander, Col. Robert Gould Shaw, the 54th Regiment broke camp at an early hour and marched to the Common, which they reached at half past ten o'clock, stopping before the State House for the officials, who were there to review the troops and present the colors. Gov. Andrew and staff, His Honor Mayor Lincoln, and many officers and civilians of note greeted the regiment.

A great multitude, five or six thousand at least, assembled to witness the ceremony. Among the number we saw the well-known leaders of the Abolitionists—Garrison, Philips, Quincy, May, Douglass and others, and besides them many names that Boston delights to honor—Lowell, and Putnam, and Jackson, and Cabot.

The men of the colored regiment were well armed with Enfield rifles, were certainly well drilled, and for military bearing and general good appearance certainly would compare well with most new regiments who have passed through this city.

Prayer having been offered by Rev. Mr. Grimes, Gov. Andrew presented the various flags to young Col. Shaw with a lengthy and inspiring speech. The handsome and brave commander of the 54th Regiment responded:

Your Excellency, we accept these flags with feelings of deep gratitude. They will remind us not only of the cause we are fighting for and of our country, but of our friends we have left behind us. We thank our Lord for the opportunity to show that you have not made a mistake in entrusting the honor of the State to a colored regiment—the first State that has sent one to the war.

The line of the march was then taken up to Battery Wharf, where the troops embarked with little delay on the DeMolay. The Steamer sailed about four o'clock yesterday afternoon.

I leaned the poster board against the couch. What was the reason for Marshall's keen interest in all this? Why had he cared about a black regiment from the Civil War? Cindi seemed to think it was nothing more than an odd little gift from one of her clients. And maybe that's all it was.

The Bar-Double-R Ranch Restaurant is a noisy chili joint sunk in the basement of a city parking garage. The garage butts up against the Woods Theater, whose massive white marquee announced this week's triple feature:
Texas Chainsaw Massacre- Part VI, Kung Fu Killers,
and
Return of the Coed Death Squad.

“You know, I think I was offered a part in
Coed Death Squad,”
Cindi said. “I got some really weird movie offers after that beauty pageant.”

Cindi followed me down the stairs into the dimly lit restaurant, past the beeps and thumps of the video games, back to where Benny was sitting. He was at a wooden table next to a tiny stage on which, according to the placard, “The Sundowners, Chicago's finest country-western group, get down to fundamentals each weeknight from sundown to midnight.”

I introduced Cindi to Benny, who was momentarily rendered speechless. He struggled to his feet, almost upsetting the small table, and shook her hand, his eyes blinking. Cindi and I got in line, picked up our orders of chili, and returned to Benny's table. He had ordered us each a bottle of Stroh's.

“God, Benny,” I said, “how can you eat all that junk?” Spread out on the table before him were two bowls of chili, a hamburger with french fries, and a chili dog.

“This is their Flatus Special,” Benny said. “I figure by about three this afternoon I'll be ready for liftoff.” He turned to Cindi, who was laughing and choking on a mouthful of beer. “We're a classy group of guys over at Abbott and Windsor.”

“So what's the good news?” I asked. “My secretary told me you had some great announcement.”

“I can't believe it, Rachel.” Benny took a big swallow of beer. “Out of the blue I get a call from the assistant dean of DePaul Law School. First time I heard from them.” He turned to Cindi. “I've been trying to get a faculty position. I sent out résumés and copies of my law review articles to every law school in the western hemisphere.” He turned back to me. “Anyway, the guy calls me up and offers me a faculty position, starting next January.”

“You're kidding!”

“No shit, Rachel. A two-year appointment teaching contract law and a seminar on class actions. Can you believe it? It'll mean a big salary cut, but it's worth it. I said yes on the spot.”

“Congratulations, Benny,” I said.

“That's super,” Cindi added.

“When are you going to leave the firm?” I asked.

“Probably around October first. I'll take a couple of months off before I start teaching. Do something fun for a change. Maybe a long weekend at Myron's House of Latex with the Rockettes.”

“How about a month of electroshock therapy at Bellevue Hospital?” I said. I took a sip of beer. “Who knows, maybe Cindi will be one of your law students.”

“Cindi?” Benny asked, looking at her.

Cindi shrugged.

“She's thinking about going to law school,” I said.

“Good grief,” said Benny in mock wonder. “A beautiful shiksa with brains.” He put his hand over his heart and rolled his eyes heavenward. “At last, Lord. You have sent me a sign.”

We ate our lunches, making small talk about law schools and the Cubs, who were beginning their annual late-summer swoon.

“Forget the Cubs,” I said. “But watch out for my Cardinals. They're going to do it again this year. And this time they'll
win
the World Series.”

Benny looked at Cindi and shook his head. “That's Rachel's tragic flaw. She's smart, tough, gorgeous, great legs. All-world legs. But the woman loves the Cardinals. Even named her dog after their shortstop.”

“Don't knock it,” Cindi said to Benny. “I grew up in Peoria rooting for the Cards. My dad used to take me down to Busch Stadium twice a summer.”

“You're both depraved.” Benny took a final swig from his beer and ordered another round for all of us. “So, you're helping Rachel with this Canaan thing,” Benny said to Cindi.

“A little,” she said. “I'm afraid I haven't been much help.”

“Benny knows about the heart attack at your apartment,” I said.

Benny coughed. “Did you know Jean Huber?” he asked quickly.

“Not, uh, professionally,” Cindi said. “But I knew he was at your firm. He really did die of a heart attack in the office, didn't he?”

“Middle of the day,” I explained. “He always kept his door shut. His secretary wasn't allowed in his office when the door was closed and he was on the phone.”

“He apparently had the heart attack around mid-morning,” Benny said. “He must have knocked over the phone when he fell. As far as his secretary knew, he was on the phone, because his extension light was lit up on her phone. Around four that afternoon one of the other lawyers knocked on his door and walked in. And there he was, laid out flat on his back, stiff as a carp.”

“God,” said Cindi.

“Your friend Marshall almost killed Huber with one of his practical jokes,” I said to Cindi.

“Marshall was a practical joker?” Cindi asked.

“When he was younger,” Benny said. “He was infamous for his practical jokes.”

“What did he do to Huber?” Cindi asked.

“Huber and Marshall were down in Kansas City for some sort of court hearing,” Benny explained. “They had just checked into the Crown Center Hotel, and the two of them were up in Huber's suite. I guess Huber needed some cash for the night. He told Marshall he was going downstairs to buy a magazine and then he was going to the front desk to cash a check. As soon as Huber leaves the room, Marshall calls downstairs and tells the front desk that he's Jean Huber and that some big guy in a gray suit just broke into his room, beat him up, and stole his wallet and checkbook. Meanwhile, Huber goes down the elevator, stops in the gift shop, and then walks over to the front desk and tells them he wants to cash a check. Two minutes later Huber is surrounded by cops. They handcuff him, take him down to the station, and book him. Huber went berserk. The guy had an absolute shit hemorrhage in jail. Meanwhile, Marshall calls the mayor, who just happens to be an old law school buddy, fills him in on the joke, and then—about two hours later—Marshall goes down to the police station and gets Huber released.”

“That's terrible,” Cindi said.

“Yeah,” Benny said. “But Huber never tried to get even. He was scared to death of Marshall. Most of the partners at Abbott and Windsor were. Marshall had this weird power over them, particularly the younger ones that he'd trained. They were like capons around him.”

Chapter Thirteen

Paul Mason was sitting in my outer office chatting with my secretary when I returned from lunch.

“What are
you
doing here?” I asked him. Mary raised her eyebrows and shrugged.

Paul stood up. “I was down in the Loop and thought I'd drop by to say hi. I just flew back from the West Coast.”

“And your arms are killing you, huh?”

He forced a laugh. “How are you?”

“Fine.” Paul followed me into my office, carrying a gym bag. I sat down behind my desk, and he sat in the chair facing the desk. Paul was wearing a pink Lacoste shirt, khaki slacks, and sandals. He put his gym bag on the carpet by his chair.

“You look great, Rachel.”

“You don't look so bad yourself.” He looked terrific. Steady, girl. “You screw a lot of California coeds this summer?”

“Jesus, Rachel, that stuff is behind us.”

“What do you mean us, kemosabe?”

“I miss you, Rachel. I really do. I've been doing a lot of thinking about us.”

“Forget it, Paul. Things were going bad between us long before I caught you giving that private tutorial on the Kama Sutra.”

“I know. And it was my fault, Rachel. I accept the blame. I guess I just wasn't ready for that sort of relationship.”

“Well, I was. And now I'm not. You killed it, Paul.”

“I don't propose we jump right back to where we used to be, Rachel.”

“We aren't jumping anywhere. And anyway, this is starting to sound like a bad soap opera.”

Paul gave me a sheepish grin. “I know.”

Mary buzzed me on the intercom. “Rachel, it's that guy from the dictionary publisher again. He says he has some news on Canaan, Massachusetts.”

“Okay, I'll take it.” I looked at Paul. “This will take just a sec.” I lifted the receiver and said hello.

“Miss Gold, this is Ralph Pinchley from
American Language.”

“How's it going, Ralph?”

“I'm really quite excited, Miss Gold. I think we've finally solved this Canaan mystery.”

“Oh?”

“It appears that our 1928 edition did contain an entry for Canaan quite similar to the one you read me. However, it was an erroneous entry. I'm pleased to report to you that the error was caught before the revised edition went to press in 1942. There was no Canaan, Massachusetts, Miss Gold. Our research files for the 1942 edition confirm that.”

“How?”

“Oh. Well, there is a note in the file. Quite, uh, succinct, I might add.”

“What does it say?” I asked.

“Well, it says: ‘Checked sources; no such place.'”

“What about the 1928 files?”

“I beg your pardon.”

I sighed. “Ralph, if there's no such place, then how did it get into the 1928 edition? What's in those files?”

“Oh, dear. I'm afraid those files are gone. They were destroyed in a fire back in 1931.”

“Rats.”

Undaunted, Pinchley launched into another sales pitch. I listened silently, thanked him again, and hung up.

“Canaan, Massachusetts?” Paul Mason asked.

I shrugged. “An imaginary Puritan village.”

“Not necessarily imaginary.”

“What does that mean?”

“It's a good story.”

“Wait a minute. How do you know anything about Canaan, Massachusetts?”

Paul smiled. “I went to Barrett College. Anyone who went to Barrett College between about 1950 and 1980 has probably heard of Canaan. One of the professors used to give a famous lecture on it each year.”

“There really was a Canaan, Massachusetts?”

“Apparently so.”

“How come I couldn't find anything on it?”

“It's not in the standard history texts. It was just one of dozens of little towns and villages that failed back in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. But some Colonial historians know about it. And there's been at least one book written about it.”

“What book?”

“I'm sure I have a copy of it somewhere. I'll drop it off.”

“What's so special about Canaan, Massachusetts?” I asked.

Paul shook his head, grinning. “Read the book first. It's real short. I don't want to spoil the fun. I'll bring it by your place this afternoon. I won't be around tonight, but we can talk about it tomorrow.”

I shook my head, smiling despite myself. “This all sounds like a sneaky way to extort another meeting with me.”

Paul parodied shock, his hand on his heart. “Me an extortionist? Never.”

“All right. Drop off the book and we'll see.”

Paul sat back in his seat and studied me with a wry expression. “Does this Canaan thing have anything to do with your work on Graham Marshall's estate?”

I stared at him. “How do you know about my involvement with Marshall's estate?”

Paul chuckled. “Elementary, my dear Gold. You are talking to America's foremost authority on detective fiction. It starts to rub off after a while.”

“Don't bullshit me, Paul. How did you find out?”

He shrugged. “Your friend Kent Charles told me you were working on the estate.” He gestured toward his gym bag, “I played handball with him over the lunch hour.”

Back when Paul and I were together, I had dragged him to a few bar association functions. He had met Kent Charles at one of the events, and the two hit it off immediately. We had even double-dated a few times. Paul and Kent played handball together twice a week at the Union League Club.

“What did Kent say?” I asked.

“Not much. He mentioned that he saw you Monday at the firm. And that you looked as gorgeous as ever. An understatement, I might add. He said you were helping the firm on something to do with Marshall's estate. I assume it has to do with that codicil on your desk.”

I glanced at my desk and saw the codicil lying faceup on the edge near Paul. The word
Canaan
appeared several times in capital letters on the first page. The caption had Marshall's full name in bold-face type.

“You're getting to be a real snoop,” I said.

“I'm sorry. I couldn't help noticing it while you were on the phone with that guy.”

“Well, it's supposed to be confidential, Paul. So I'd appreciate it if you keep your mouth shut. Understand?”

He raised his right hand. “I promise.”

I glanced at my watch. I was supposed to meet Kent Charles at the Yacht Club in less than an hour.

Paul saw my glance and stood up. “I have to get going,” he said. “I'll drop off that book later.” He lifted his gym bag and then paused.

“What?” I said.

Paul winked as he unzipped the bag. “I brought back a present from California.”

I rolled my eyes. “Paul.”

“Don't worry. It's not for you.” He handed me a gift-wrapped package. “Tell Ozzie I miss him.”

I smiled. “That's sweet. Thanks.”

“Tell him it's what all the dogs are into out on the Coast.”

After Paul left I unwrapped the gift. Inside was a pair of dog sunglasses—the wraparound Terminator style—and a small package of all-natural dog biscuits from some outfit in Marin County called The Organic Hound.

I sat back in my chair and smiled. Maybe he really had changed.

***

I met Kent Charles for drinks on the sundeck at the Yacht Club. He got there before me and was flipping through advance sheets when I arrived. His suit jacket was hanging on the back of his chair and he was wearing sunglasses. Just like Ozzie's.

Pausing at the doorway to the sundeck, I had to marvel again at how smoothly Kent Charles had adapted to his present life-style. The fourth son of an East Joliet bricklayer, Kent had been the first and only member of his family to enter college—an achievement made possible through the munificence of the athletic department of the University of Illinois. A four-year football scholarship carried him to a B.A. in economics. A three-year academic scholarship carried him to a J.D. from the University of Illinois College of Law. A combination of hard work, good looks, aggressive smarts, chameleonic adaptability, and a London tailor carried him to junior partnership at Abbott & Windsor—the first graduate of the University of Illinois College of Law to survive that perilous swim upstream. More than one client of Abbott & Windsor had asked Kent where he had prepped. To his credit, he answered truthfully, albeit with a touch of arrogance: East Joliet High.

“Glad you could join me, Rachel,” he said, removing his sunglasses and setting them on the table next to his drink.

A waiter in a white jacket arrived just as I sat down.

“I'll have another gin and tonic, John,” Kent said. “How ‘bout you, Rachel?”

“Bud Light,” I said. After the waiter left I gestured toward the harbor. “Is your boat out there?”

Kent pointed. “It's the fourth one on the left, over there.”

“I remember going out on it when I was a summer clerk.”

Kent smiled. “Yes. You wore a white one-piece, and your boyfriend got seasick as soon as we left the harbor.”

“He threw up down in your bathroom.” I shook my head. “At least I still have the swimsuit.”

“How's your practice?”

“I'm busy,” I said.

“Any regrets?”

“None. I guess I'm just not cut out for the big firm culture. I enjoy being on my own.”

The waiter arrived with our drinks and a bowl of peanuts.

Kent took a sip of his drink. “Cal and I would like to get you back into Bottles and Cans.”

I drank some of my beer. “As I said, I enjoy being on my own.”

“And you would be. We have a potential conflict with one of the bottling companies. We'd like you to represent them. It would be easy work, Rachel. We could start you off on one or two of the defendants' subcommittees. Cal is chairing one on pre-1970 market-share surveys. I'm handling the predatory pricing claims, along with a guy from Cravath. It would mean a committee meeting each month, some work with expert witnesses, some drafting work, and attending some of the depositions. The next round of deps starts soon. I can make sure you get some choice assignments. Better yet, your fees are paid out of the joint defense fund. I'm on that subcommittee too.” Kent smiled. “We pay all attorneys' bills within thirty days, no questions asked.”

I mulled it over. It would mean an easy thousand dollars a month, probably for years to come. Bottles & Cans was an annuity for every lawyer involved. “What's the catch?” I finally asked.

Kent laughed. “No strings attached. Honest, Rachel, we could use the help. And if you don't take the client, we'll just have to refer it to someone else.”

“God, I just hate the thought of getting back into that case.”

“Might as well get on the gravy train, Rachel. It's an easy fifteen grand a year.”

“Who's the client?”

“Mound City Bottling Company.”

“In St. Louis?” I asked.

“Right. You're from down there, aren't you?”

“You're making it tempting.” I smiled.

“Terrific.”

“Wait. I haven't said yes yet. Do you have a file on Mound City Bottling?”

“Sure. I'll have my girl send it over tomorrow.”

“Your what?”

“Sorry.” Kent laughed. “My secretary.”

“That's better, boy.”

I asked Kent a few questions about Mound City Bottling, and then we discussed the current status of Bottles & Cans.

Kent pointed to my empty glass. “Another?”

“No, thanks. I have to get back to the office.”

Kent checked his watch. “I have a meeting at six. A board meeting of the Shedd Aquarium. It ought to be over by seven. Do you have dinner plans?”

“I do. Thanks, anyway.”

Kent smiled. “Maybe some other time.”

“Sure. If I decide to represent Mound City, you and Cal can buy me dinner and fill me in on the case.” Might as well keep the relationship professional from the start.

“Can I drop you off at your office?” Kent asked as we both stood up.

“No, thanks. In rush hour traffic I can get there quicker on foot. I could use the exercise, anyway.”

“You look in great shape to me,” Kent said as we passed through the dining area toward the exit.

Outside the Yacht Club one of the car hoppers had pulled Kent's red Mercedes convertible to the front. He handed the keys to Kent.

“I had lunch with Harlan Dodson today,” Kent told me. “Harlan said there was a mystery involving Graham Marshall's estate. Is that what they've got you on?”

“Just a loose end they want me to tie up,” I said, keeping it vague.

Kent moved close. “Well, Harlan seems really bent out of shape about Ishmael bringing you into the case. He probably drafted the will, and he's hypersensitive about anyone else trying to second-guess him on those things.” Kent smiled. “Just a friendly tip.”

“Thanks, I'll keep it in mind.”

He placed his hand gently around my waist. I could smell his musky cologne. “Listen, if you have trouble tying up that loose end, I'll be happy to tell you whatever I know about Graham. We spent literally hundreds of hours together on out-of-town trips. I probably know more about that man than anyone but his wife. If I can help, give me a buzz.”

I almost asked him about Canaan right there, but decided to hold off. I had already told Benny, and I wasn't supposed to tell anyone. “Thanks. I'll give you a call if I have any questions.”

***

Mary had typed my notes of the four newspaper articles listed in code on the computer printout. I read them on the el ride to my apartment.

I got off at the Morse stop in Rogers Park, still mentally shuffling the articles: a beauty pageant, a fatal plane crash, an embarrassing typographical error, and a hidden treasure in a discarded cabinet. I was beginning to sense a pattern somewhere out there on the horizon of my mind, but it was still eluding me.