Madeline Mann (20 page)

They sighed at each other and shook their heads. This was a common argument: my mother, my father contended, lured him with rich, high-fat foods. When my mother made salads, however, my father craned his head with obvious disappointment, looking for the missing main course.

In defense of my father, however, my mother had a way of ambushing good intentions, like making apple strudel and presenting the platter to Dad after he emerged from a session on the Exercycle. My dad had been sick once, with cancer, and my mom's caretaking got a little oppressive sometimes. She had been raised in a culture in which food meant something; offering food showed love and a nurturing spirit.

I left them to their discussion, giving them both a kiss and a thanks for the meal. “You can't stay?” asked my mother.

“I want to look over my notes and then go to bed. Maybe read my Agatha Christie,” I said.

“What notes?” asked my father.

“You know. Things I'm learning about Logan. People who might have had a grudge, people with a motive, that sort of thing. Speaking of people with a motive, the Webley police detective thinks
I
killed Logan.”

“What?” my parents cried in unison.

“Or at least he finds me suspicious. He said he didn't believe the story I was telling.”

My mother's mouth hung open; this was rare. “Karl, you must call the police and complain. We have paid taxes in this town—”

“Don't worry about it, Mom. Sooner or later they'll have to confront the real evidence,” I said. I hadn't forgotten the slight myself, or the humiliation of being called in. It was just an added impetus to complete my own investigation.

“Madeline, when this is all over, you should demand an apology,” my father said sternly. “In the meantime, perhaps you can share what notes you have with this detective. But don't tell him what we said about Maggie. Just because his mother was a drinker doesn't make her a suspect,” he said.

I shook my head at him, smiling. “I know, Dad. I do have a sense of what I'm doing here, believe me.”

My father gave me a look that was half proud, half doubtful, and then summed up the entire investigation with regal finality. “One of his ex-girlfriends killed him, mark my words,” he said importantly. “From what you've told us, he was a louse.”

I shrugged. “The mystery writers say that guns aren't women's weapons. Poison is preferred.”

My father laughed. “That was in the 1930s. When's the last time you read about anyone in the news being poisoned to death?”

He had me there. I picked up my plate and walked it over to the sink.

“What about you and Jack?” my mother asked pointedly.

“We're fine,” I said. I'd told Maggie Lanford, of all people, that I was ready to commit to Jack. But I wasn't ready to tell my own parents, perhaps because I still needed to tell Jack.

“Madeline, you really need to think about where your relationship is going—”

“Oh, look at the time!” I yelled, stifling a garlic burp. “I hate to eat and run. It was delicious, Mom. Please invite me again.” I jogged to the door, avoiding the look in my mother's eye. I hadn't quite made it out into the chill of night before I sensed my mother turning her guns in another direction. Her voice floated out to me.

“You really have to come up with some sort of fitness regimen, Karl.…”

I could almost hear my father's eyes rolling.

seventeen

It was raining
the following morning, in a funeral cliché. I ate a somber breakfast of oatmeal and apples and dreaded the day to come. I put on my only black dress, the equivalent of a long turtleneck, and covered it with my trench coat; then I braved the drizzle and jogged to my car.

Everything I noted on the route to St. Catherine's added to my depression. The trees had relinquished more leaves with the night's rain and wind, and they stood, shivering and defenseless, in the cruelty of the gray morning. A man in a dark tweed coat casually looked the other way while his ancient setter pooped on the lawn of the Webley Library. A pair of irate Webley drivers stood yelling at each other at the intersection of Grace and Hope, pointing at their respective fenders.

Jamie was the first person I spied when I arrived at the church. She was standing with two older people, probably her parents, next to a dark car, waiting for Wick Lanford to emerge. I was glad to see the children weren't with her. Poor little Calvin and Noah would have a hard enough time without having to hear the sympathy of every last stranger at the funeral. I felt another burst of admiration for Jamie as I reflected on this. I walked toward her; she spied me and met me halfway. To my surprise, she threw her arms around me in a heartfelt hug. “Oh, Madeline,” she said. “Thanks for all you did for me. I know you loved him too.” She maintained her dignity, shedding only a couple of tears as she looked into my eyes.

I felt uncomfortable. It was true that I'd loved Logan, perhaps still distantly loved him, but the more I learned, the angrier I became, and I would never be able to tell him. Jamie, on the other hand, the woman I'd barely remembered, I now considered a friend. “Jamie,” I said, squeezing her hand, “what will you do now? Do you know yet?”

She brushed a hand across her eyes. Jamie's parents and Wick had joined us, and we began walking to the church. “My parents said I could come back home, of course.” She sent a grateful smile to her mom and dad, who each gave her a squeeze of comfort. “And Logan's dad here has offered me the job of managing one of his inns. It seems the lady who does that is retiring. And I guess Wick's girlfriend, Shelly, has offered to help me take care of the kids. So it sounds like something I'll pursue. The kids can be by their grandpa, and we'll all be out of that apartment, and I'll have a job.” Her voice broke on the last word, but she shrugged it off and managed a watery smile for me.

I looked at Wick, who seemed to have aged in the last two days. He was alone, so I assumed his girlfriend Shelly was in charge back in Saugatuck. “That's great, Wick. I'm glad Jamie and the boys will be with you.”

He nodded his agreement, and we reached the sidewalk of the church, where Maggie Lanford joined the group. She wore a dignified black dress, and her hair was pulled back in a simple bun. She gave Wick and Jamie's parents all a quick hug, put her arm around Jamie, and said, “Madeline, dear,” to me. I wondered if she were sedated; she had the smiling, distant countenance of someone on drugs. I remembered my parents’ concern about drinking, but I gave her a brief kiss on the cheek and smelled nothing but Estée Lauder perfume.

I stepped away as Wick and Jamie conferred with her in muted tones. The three of them ascended the steps of the church. I waited at the foot, looking for Bill. The drizzle had abated slightly, so I figured I could wait. My hair was already a victim of humidity, but I didn't think it would matter, since I intended to sit in the back row.

Before Bill appeared, I recognized various mourners, including Pamela, who waved briefly and then studiously avoided my gaze; Linus Lanford, the tall, dark brother of Logan who for some reason hadn't arrived with his father or mother; several other staff members of the mayor's office; and Quinn Paley, who was there without Fawn. I wondered if she'd been sent home in shame for swiping the ’Vette. Quinn looked out of place away from his cabin. He seemed tired and out of sorts; I wondered how close to Logan he had actually been. My family—Mom, Dad, and my brothers—waved and beckoned but then hurried in to be out of the rain. I even recognized some people from high school, including various old girlfriends of Logan's.

Just as I spotted Bill walking down the sidewalk at an infuriatingly slow pace, a long black car pulled up, and out jumped Lyle Sylvane and Mayor Don Paul. Don Paul flashed me his show-business smile before he realized it was only me; then he treated me to the icy routine.

Lyle, ever the optimist, gave me a wink that suggested I could win a sexual assignation with him right after the funeral.

I was shivering with cold and distaste when Bill reached me.

“Ready for this?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.

We ascended the stone stairs together like a nervous bride and groom. I tried not to dwell on the thought that Logan would be carried down in a coffin, never to attend Mass again.

The Mass is a blur in my memory now, because what happened after it wiped out all of the salient details. I remember a pretty eulogy by Logan's college roommate, and the priest, Father Fahey, made profound comments about life and death and said kind things about Logan and the fact that he was taken too soon.

At the end, just before Logan's coffin was carried to the back by the pallbearers, one of whom was his brother, the priest extended the family's invitation for everyone present to come to the funeral luncheon at Elizabeth House, one of Webley's more stately restaurants.

Bill and I whispered occasionally to each other about the people present—who seemed sad and who didn't. In general, the only people who looked truly devastated were Logan's family and some of his old girlfriends. His former coworkers seemed dry-eyed, except for my mother, who was on the verge of shaming the family with the volume of her cries. My mom cried at all funerals. My dad never got to see war movies, because Mom only sanctioned things with happy endings.

I noticed Detective Perez was just a few pews away from us. I waved discreetly when she looked our way. She nodded with cop-like detachment, and yet I thought I saw the hint of a smile.

We remained in our pew until everyone had filed out; then we slowly made our way out to the parking lot. We were supposed to follow the hearse to the cemetery for one final prayer. I told Bill I wasn't up to the task; I felt unwilling to spend any more time with the coffin.

Bill told me he'd meet me at the banquet hall, and he loped off to his car like a cowboy on the way to the campfire.

I noticed Quinn Paley on the sidewalk; I hadn't seen him inside. Before he could stride to his car and drive away, I caught up with him. “Quinn,” I said. “Madeline. Do you remember me?”

“Sure,” he said. He was scanning the crowd.

“Listen, I was talking to your sister yesterday—”

He grabbed my arm. “You saw her?”

I nodded dumbly. “Sure. She was here in your Corvette. She was at city hall, and I spoke to her in the parking lot.”

“She's missing,” he said. “I drove down here because she left me a note. I found the car in front of city hall with a ticket on it, but I haven't found Fawn.”

I stared at him. His fingers were digging painfully into my arm. This was none of my business, I supposed, but she was just a girl.

“She drove off with Don Paul. He's our mayor,” I said. “That was the last I saw of her.”

Quinn Paley gave me a look that might have been a sort of angry gratitude. “Okay, thanks,” he said. He started to move away.

“Quinn,” I said, “you need to tell the police. And call me if I can help you.” I gave him my
Wire
business card. “I'll be around today, and I'll be at city hall tomorrow.”

He grabbed the card, nodded again at me, and took off in the black car.

My Scorpio was one of the last cars in the lot; other vehicles stood waiting in line, receiving their funeral stickers so that they could legally blow off red lights. The line had just started to move slowly when I reached the driver's door; I noticed the little note on my windshield and grabbed it, thinking it was some sort of missive from the funeral home.

I got in my seat and buckled in, then read the note. “Logan is dead and buried. Stop looking into his death or you'll be sorry.” The letters had been traced with stencils, very carefully, and obviously in advance of today's gathering. The paper was common computer stock. I doubted the police could do much with determining the origin of either the paper or the stencils. Fingerprints were a moot point, since the note had been in drizzle and I'd pawed it, thinking it was unimportant.

My heart pounding in my ears, I looked back at the line of cars, scanning for Detective Perez and her Nissan. She was last in line. I jumped out of my car and ran to hers, knocking rather frantically on the window.

She rolled it down and said, “Hello.” Her calmness, as usual, accentuated my lack of control.

“Hi,” I said. “Are you going to the funeral dinner?”

“I'll be there,” she said, pointing at me.

“I just found this on my windshield,” I told her, trying not to sound frightened and failing. “Maybe you could read it and give me your thoughts over the mashed potatoes.”

She gave it a cursory glance and offered me a somber expression. “I was afraid of something like this,” she said. “Oh, here we go. Don't go anywhere before this luncheon. Go straight to Elizabeth House.” She drove off, following the car in front of her with the orderly, duckling-like response that funeral train members have.

I stood in the drizzle, feeling sorry for myself, and still worried about Fawn.

I went back to my car finally, got in, and locked all of the doors. It was true that I had ruffled some feathers, but I couldn't believe anyone would risk exposure with a note like this. No one was really in any danger from me, after all. It didn't make sense. What I knew, the police knew, and I'd made that clear to Paul and his cronies.

In any case, I decided, shrugging out of my shock, it was nothing a little warm food couldn't put in perspective. I set my sights on the funeral luncheon and tried to put fearful thoughts from my mind.

The
salads were being served in the Crystal Room of Elizabeth House; mourners had found their tables and seemed relieved to be able to eat. Some of them, frankly, seemed hardly mournful as they passed jokes around with the blue cheese dressing.

Detective Perez sat at my table; she had already pocketed my note but was trying to ask me things in a subdued way, when she knew that nobody was looking. This was difficult, since everyone at my table was staring at us. This included my mother, Bill, Pamela, and some other staffers from the mayor's office, as well as a couple whom no one knew, who stared mainly at their plates and occasionally asked the table at large what was on the menu for the day. The woman, it appeared, had a nervous digestion, and the man had diabetes, and they seemed concerned indeed at the thought of eating something potentially poisonous.