Grave Designs (19 page)

Chapter Twenty-five

“You writing a letter?”

“Notes,” I said, looking up from the kitchen table. It was Saturday morning. Cindi was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. She was still wearing my sweatshirt. “Investigation notes on this Canaan matter,” I explained. “I'm writing down everything that's happened so far. I'm going to go down to the office this afternoon to use the dictaphone. I want to make sure I've got a complete record of all this.” I shrugged. “Just in case.”

“Just in case what?”

I shook my head. “I just don't know. Just in case something else happens.”

Cindi walked barefoot into the kitchen. “I'm really freaked out,” she said as she pulled up a chair.

“Me too,” I said, putting down my pen. “Maybe there really was a gas leak in your apartment. Maybe—but not likely. And I guess there's still a possibility that they were after your friend Andi. Or that accountant. But how could they know those two were going to use your place? And even if they did find out, how could they rig a fake gas explosion that quickly? It doesn't fit. It's more likely they were after you.”

Cindi shuddered. “God, it gives me the creeps.”

“That makes two of us.” I shrugged. “You want coffee?”

“That sounds great. What time is it, anyway?”

“Ten o'clock.”

I walked over to the kitchen counter, took a mug out of the cabinet, and poured her a cup. “How 'bout some breakfast?” I asked.

“Love some.”

“I have a quart of buttermilk. Do you like buttermilk pancakes?”

“Love 'em. Can I help?”

“Nope.”

I thoroughly enjoy cooking, even though I don't do it often. Putting together the homemade pancake batter might take my mind off the Canaan situation, at least briefly. Besides, we both needed some hearty food to cheer us up.

I gave Cindi the first two pancakes.

“These are delicious, Rachel. You're in the wrong profession.”

“I know.”

Cindi smiled. “I can see it now. Three little kids at the table and Mama Gold at the stove cooking up flapjacks.”

I smiled too. “That doesn't sound so bad.”

Cindi sighed. “I know.”

We picked up Ozzie at Terry Machelski's office. Poor Ozzie looked bedraggled from two days in a cage. But Terry said he was showing no after-effects. Certainly no memory loss: Ozzie lapped at my face with his wet tongue and barked for joy. I kissed him on the nose and hugged him. I had his brush in the car. He licked my face as I untangled his coat.

We took the car back home, and then Cindi, Ozzie, and I walked over to the lake. Cindi was wearing her own clothes, which had dried overnight. I had on a pair of cutoffs and a St. Louis Cardinals T-shirt.

The three of us walked halfway down the pier. Ozzie jumped into the water. Cindi and I sat on the concrete with our legs dangling over the edge. I leaned back and closed my eyes. The sun felt good on my face.

“The police ran a trace on the license of the station wagon I followed to your building,” I said.

“What did they find?”

“Turns out it was a stolen car. They found it in an alley in Uptown last night. Abandoned.”

Cindi sat up and took out a cigarette. “That sure doesn't sound like a resident of Shore Drive Tower.”

“Nope.”

“You really think they were trying to kill me?” she asked.

“I can't figure out the motive. That's what bothers me. Unless they think you know something about them.”

“Marshall didn't tell me a darn thing,” Cindi said.

“Where did you keep that newspaper poster? The one about Colonel Shaw?”

“In my bedroom. Why?”

“Anyone else ask you about it?”

“Once in a while.”

“Can you remember who?”

Cindi thought it over.

“No.”

“Did they ever ask who gave it to you?”

“I don't think so. And even if they had, I wouldn't have told them. God, you don't think it was one of my clients, do you?”

“I don't know what to think.”

We were interrupted by Ozzie, who came padding down the pier after his swim and shook himself all over us.

On the way back I stopped at a telephone booth in Loyola Park to call Maggie Sullivan. Her daughter answered and told me that her mother was out in the cemetery doing a funeral. I gave her my office telephone number and asked her to tell her mother to call me after two.

I hung up and turned to find Cindi. She was about twenty yards away, throwing an old tennis ball for Ozzie to fetch. She had her back to me as Ozzie bounded after the ball. As I walked toward her I noticed a stocky black man leaning against a tree about forty yards beyond where the tennis ball had landed. His arms were crossed over his barrel chest. He wore wraparound sunglasses, a black sleeveless T-shirt, blue jeans, and leather sandals.

Ozzie and I reached Cindi from opposite directions at the same time.

“Good doggie,” Cindi said as she patted him on the head.

“Don't look up,” I said, “but one of us seems to have an admirer.”

Cindi kept patting Ozzie on the head. “Who?”

“The black guy in the shades.”

“Good boy,” Cindi said as she took a quick look.

I bent over Ozzie and rubbed his head. “Let's see if he means business.”

We walked out of Loyola Park and down Sheridan to Morse Avenue. As we stood at the corner of Morse and Sheridan waiting for the light to change, I dropped the tennis ball onto the grass by the sidewalk. As I bent down to pick it up I looked back. He was standing at a park bench twenty yards away, his right foot up on the bench as he adjusted his sandal strap. The light changed and we crossed Sheridan and headed west in silence along Morse. When we reached the Poolgogi Restaurant I said, “Wait here for a sec.”

I went into the restaurant, picked up a
Reader
from the stack inside the front door, and walked back out. He was thirty yards behind us on the sidewalk, reading a sign nailed to a telephone pole.

We turned right at Greenview and headed north down the narrow street along the el tracks. As we walked, my anger began to build. This was my neighborhood, and it was broad daylight. “Dammit,” I mumbled, and spun around.

The sidewalk was empty. He was gone. I jogged back down to Morse with Ozzie and scanned the scene in both directions. No sign of him anywhere.

“Vanished into thin air,” I said when Ozzie and I reached Cindi again.

“Not quite,” she said, jerking her head toward the el tracks.

I looked up. He was on the el platform, his back toward us. We watched as a southbound train pulled into the station. He stepped into the train without looking down at us. The train doors clattered shut. Shading my eyes, I watched the train curve down the tracks out of sight.

Chapter Twenty-six

Benny Goldberg was waiting in the foyer of my apartment building when we returned home. He looked at Cindi, his eyes widening.

“Holy shit,” he mumbled.

I grinned. “Benny,” I said, “you remember Cindi, don't you?”

“Goddamn, girl. Welcome back!” Benny enveloped her in a bear hug, lifting her off the ground.

Cindi giggled and blushed. “Thanks. It's good to be back.”

We went up to my apartment and Cindi filled him in while I gave Ozzie some water and scrambled him two eggs. Good for his coat. I came back into the living room with a beer for Benny and diet colas for Cindi and me. I put the
Abbey Road
album on the stereo and turned to Benny. “Pretty wild, huh?”

“Wild?” said Benny. “More like dangerous as hell. You've stumbled onto a very dangerous group of men.”

“Maybe,” I said. “And maybe not.” I pulled the tab on my soda and sat down on the floor facing Cindi and Benny, who were on the couch. “The explosion in Cindi's apartment doesn't prove that some Canaan conspiracy tried to kill her. It doesn't even prove that
anyone
tried to kill her. It's just possible that there really was a gas leak. Cindi paid some guy to cut off the gas. Maybe he did a poor job. Or maybe someone else on the floor had some work done on their oven and whoever did the work accidentally reopened Cindi's gas line. It could have happened.”

“But what about all the rest?” Cindi asked.

“Some of it you can explain.” I shrugged. “Some you can't. Yet. The grave robbery. The messages in the
Reader
and the
Tribune.
The exchange up on the el train. The guy in the station wagon driving to Shore Drive Tower.” I smiled sheepishly. “The second grave robbery. And the stolen dictionary. And the search of my apartment.”

“Terrific, Rachel,” Benny said. “Glad to hear there aren't many loose ends. What are you going to do?”

“I don't know.” I shrugged. “I'll think of something.”

Benny tried to stifle a belch. “God,” he groaned.

“You don't look so hot,” I said to him.

“I met my match.”

“Who was she?”

“Shit, it wasn't no girl. It was food.” Benny leaned back against the couch. He stared at the unopened can of beer and closed his eyes. “Actually, I wouldn't even call it food.”

“What was it?” I asked.

Benny shivered. “Smoky links. From that joint that just opened down on Halstead. God! My entire gastrointestinal system has been on red alert since midnight.”

“What are smoky links?” asked Cindi.

Benny moaned. “Allegedly, smoked pork sausage. But you should have seen those things. God only knows what was in them.”

“Bad, huh?” Cindi asked, giggling.

“Worse. You ever hear of traif?” he asked her.

“No.”

“It's the opposite of kosher,” Benny said. He smothered another belch. “Well, those smoky links are mega-traif. If a Jewish man eats four of them in one sitting, he'll grow a new foreskin. After just two of them I felt like a toxic waste dump. By midnight I was driving the porcelain bus.”

“I take it you're not up for that Mexican place, huh?”

“Ugh. Don't even mention it. I couldn't deal with anything stronger than milk of magnesia.” Benny struggled to his feet. “Excuse me, ladies. I seem to be picking up an SOS from my large intestine.”

***

We all decided to skip lunch. Cindi and I were still full from breakfast, and Benny's stomach was rumbling ominously. I made him a cup of weak tea, and then he drove us downtown in his Nova. I wanted to go to my office, and Cindi needed to buy some clothes and a disguise.

It was a beautiful August afternoon. The sky was a deep blue and the lake sparkled in the sunlight as we drove onto Lake Shore Drive at Hollywood. A red Frisbee sailed over the sunbathers as we passed the beach at Foster. Soccer games were in progress on all the fields along Montrose, and Hispanic families were gathered in loose circles around dozens of barbecue grills dotting the park. Farther south, the joggers and bike riders moved slowly where the path narrowed at Belmont Harbor.

Cindi pointed to the sailboats and yachts gently swaying in Belmont Harbor. “I once had a client who took me out on his yacht at high tide,” she said. “He paid me two hundred dollars to read him his old college girlfriend's letters and watch him masturbate. Very strange.”

“Ah,” Benny said. “So we beat off, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” He glanced back at me in the rearview mirror.

“Not bad,” I said. “Not great, but not bad.”

Beyond the Fullerton exit Lake Shore Drive swung into a long stretch toward the high-rises on Michigan Avenue. The John Hancock Building loomed ahead like the rook in a chess game for giants. Traffic slowed at Oak Street Beach. Benny started moaning. “God, look at those chicks,” he said.

“Forget it, Benny,” Cindi said. “I know the type. All they want is drugs and kinky sex.”

Benny moaned again. “Cocaine and bondage. The staff of life.”

Benny dropped his car off at a public garage near my office. Cindi was going to Marshall Field's for some clothes, a black wig, and Lolita sunglasses, and Benny volunteered to keep her company. We agreed to meet back at my office at six o'clock.

My office is in one of the oldest buildings in the Loop. The major tenants—law firms and accounting firms—left years ago for loftier quarters in the shimmering office towers along LaSalle Street. More than half the vacated office space remains empty. I share my floor with a pair of process servers, a podiatrist, an elderly solo practitioner, and a three-woman accounting firm. All of their offices were dark on this Saturday afternoon.

I let myself in and opened a window to air the place out. Mary had typed my draft of a trial brief that was due on Friday. I had six days to get it in shape, and it still needed a lot of editing. I put a tape into my Dictaphone, turned toward the window, put my feet up on the ledge, and started dictating. I stopped after the second sentence and rewound the tape, telling myself that the trial brief could wait.

I had to dictate my Canaan notes. Where to start? At the cemetery: my first meeting with Maggie. No, better to start at the beginning. My meeting with Ishmael Richardson. Dictate everything I could remember. There might be a clue buried there somewhere. I clicked on the Dictaphone and started at the beginning.

About an hour later the telephone rang. It was Maggie Sullivan.

“How are the funeral arrangements going?”

“They're going to start digging on Monday, kid. I found a carpenter for the coffin. He promised it'll be ready by Thursday. They'll load Gus into it Friday morning and haul him out here on a gooseneck truck.”

“Have they done the autopsy?” I asked.

“Not yet. They're gonna thaw him out over the weekend and start on Monday.”

“I'll be out there on Saturday for the funeral.”

“Glad to have you. But get here early. There's going to be a big crowd.”

“I assume it was quiet out there last night.”

“Yep. I found ol' Vern sound asleep in the Slumber Room this morning.”

“Good. Listen, I don't know where that coffin is, but I think I have a pretty good idea what's in it. Do you want to come by my office? I'm here until six.”

“I can get there by then.”

“Good. Come on down. I have a couple of questions for you now,” I said.

“Shoot.”

“What does a burial fee buy at your cemetery?”

“The plot of land and the burial.”

“What about care and maintenance?”

“That's extra.”

“How is that handled?”

“Depends. I give my customers several options. They're printed right on the form contract. They can pay an annual fee or they can buy permanent care and maintenance for a lump sum. The amount depends on what kind of care and maintenance they want. I have a no-frills package and a deluxe package.”

“And that's all on the contract?”

“You bet. I always explain it too.”

That clinched it. “Thanks, Maggie.”

“See you tonight, kiddo.”