Man Who Loved God (23 page)

In time, Al became convinced he was not going to father a child—at any rate not by Barbara. Their marriage then settled prematurely into loveless cohabitation.

One of the considerations about which they were in total agreement was divorce.

For one, Al did not want to publicly admit that he had failed in making a success of his life with this gorgeous, desirable woman. For those who might have assumed that they would be able to control this vivacious creature, Al would have had two words:
try it.

For another, Al had a secret hope. He was determined to climb the ladder at Adams Bank and Trust. And when he was seated at the right hand of Tom Adams, Barbara would come around. He was convinced that was her ultimate aim: to be the wife of a singularly successful man. When this happened—and happen it would—he would take counsel with himself. At that point, like Henry Higgins, Al could be a most forgiving man. Or, he could throw the baggage out.

For Barbara, short of having Joyce, things could scarcely have worked out more smoothly. The only fly in the ointment was the fact that Al’s rocket remained on the launching pad.

She complained to him—and to just about anyone who would listen—that he had sold his soul to the company. But in her heart of hearts, that was precisely what should be happening.

If and when Al made it to the big leagues—which meant nothing less than an executive vice presidency—she might even entertain thoughts of a child.

In this, Joyce Hunter had marked a path. From all Barbara could tell in one meeting, Joyce’s daughter had turned out ideally. Not only was she a loyal daughter—to both her parents—she had stopped her father from making public something that would hurt everyone concerned.

No, Barbara would not be averse to having a daughter like Harriet.

But that could not happen till Al made his mark and Barbara’s biological clock was far enough advanced that she would deign to compromise her fabulous figure.

And no talk of abortion under any circumstances.

Sadly, Al was in sight of the magical goal when he was cut down.

Part of Barbara’s present plan was to test the water in four directions to ascertain if any of the present three VPs—or their CEO—might have had a hand in Al’s murder.

She also planned to convince four individuals that each was the father of her unborn child.

Finally, to insure the most comfortable settlement for her, she hoped to uncover some financial hanky-panky perpetrated by any or all of the VPs.

Blackmail, like greed, could be good.

And that is how Barbara Simpson Ulrich grew from an innocent little girl into a scheming, blackmailing widow.

Father Tully seemed to be winding up his eulogy.

Barbara had no idea how long he’d been speaking, how long she’d been lost in thought. She glanced at her watch. She had only a vague notion of when he had begun. Her best guess was approximately fifteen minutes ago. Acceptable timing.

Evidently, Father Tully was drawing some sort of analogy between Al’s involvement in the bank’s new branch and a pair of mountain climbers.

“They were nearly three quarters of the way up,” said Father Tully, “when the storm hit. It was as powerful as it was sudden. The blizzard effectively cut off any chance of further progress or retreat. One climber took refuge in a small natural overhang. The other tried to go on.

“When the storm finally lifted and rescuers were able to find the pair, the climber who had tried to go on was found frozen to death. He was leaning against the wind and died with his knee bent, as if he was taking another step when he passed on.

“One of the rescue party looked at the man and his bent knee, and said, ‘at least he died trying.’

“And that, finally, is what we can say, with some pride, of Al Ulrich: at least he died trying.”

Father Tully paused, then took his seat.

The room was quiet. His eulogy had been effective. Some whose presence at this wake was pro forma were actually thinking serious eschatological thoughts.

At length, Tom Adams stood, thanked Father Tully, and pronounced an end to the proceedings.

There followed a good bit of milling about as people paid their final respects to the widow and to the body of the deceased.

Those who offered Barbara words of consolation did not mind that she did not meet their eyes. Today they were willing to excuse her nearly anything.

And as the mourners left the funeral home, they spoke to each other of how well Barbara was holding up. What a shock it must be to have one’s life partner taken so suddenly and out of due time. “Isn’t she brave!”

Even those who ordinarily bad-mouthed her—and there were more than a few in this gathering—even they were in sympathy with her. Exceptions were two of the VP wives—Marilyn Fradet being a latter-day convert to Barbara’s corner.

Barbara of the absent gaze actually was trying to lock eyes with four men. She succeeded with three, but Tom Adams was concentrating on those who offered
him
condolences.

It didn’t matter. Later this day she would begin her own investigation and interrogation to find who actually was responsible for her husband’s murder. For murder it was, she was certain. Who would accept responsibility for her unborn child. And whose hand might be in the company till.

And her manner of inquiry, as ever, would be unique.

Nineteen

The casual observer might be prone to say something like: the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree; or, like mother, like daughter.

Claire Simpson had discarded a husband while juggling four lovers. Claire’s daughter first discarded, then lost forever a husband while juggling four paramours.

As Barbara long ago took note of her mother’s sexual athletics, the girl had vowed not to follow Claire’s track record. Yet, numerically at least, she had. But by now she had forgotten the comparison. Particularly since, unsettled by the pressures triggered by one or another of her lovers, Claire had committed suicide.

Though devastated by her mother’s tragic act, Barbara drew no parallel when Joyce Hunter chose the same violent end. Barbara had a selective memory. She chose to remember the more rosy incidents in her life. She did not dwell on tragic events—particularly those that portended any sort of evil. She was the embodiment of the phrase, Those who do not learn from the past are doomed to repeat it. However, her attitude toward her past and future appeared to be an effective defense mechanism.

At this moment, several hours after the funeral service for her late husband, Barbara was in her apartment preparing to greet a man who quite possibly might have been involved in her husband’s death, and who also might be the father of her unborn child.

After her shower, she was careful to break routine and do nothing to enhance the natural allure of her body. No powder, no perfume or cologne, no lipstick. Everything must be natural because his wife was the suspicious sort. A foreign fragrance, a dusting of powder, a smudge of lipstick could lead to an ugly scene.

She selected one of his favorite dresses—if it could be described as a dress. It was a series of leather straps overlapping at strategic areas, definitely meant to be worn, if ever, over a shielding slip. The dress was held together at several side points by Velcro. She wore no undergarment.

As if she had a repertoire of many plays, musicals, or operas and was about to appear in one of them, she now conducted for herself a quick refresher. She would have to mentally run through the work before taking the stage.

This would be repeatedly so for the next twenty-four hours, during which, according to her plan, she would be visited by all four of her lovers.

First, due in less than half an hour, was Martin Whitston, vice president in charge of commercial lending.

Over the years she had grown familiar with the background of “her” men. Their peculiar history is what made them what they were today. As such, it was important to Barbara.

Marty sprang from a financially modest, middle-class background. He was the oldest of five brothers, no sisters. His father was a roughhouse character who was a “pal” to his boys. But he took no nonsense from them. It was fortunate that Marty’s mother lived throughout her sons’ formative years or there would have been little or no softening influence at all on the growing boys.

Marty’s father was a Detroit policeman. The archetype of the bygone-age beat cop who knew that rattling a nightstick on a crook’s head more often than not was more effective than taking the hood to the precinct and booking him. The cops who went by the book climbed the ladder more quickly. But they didn’t earn the respect Patrolman Whitston had both from his peers and from the bad guys.

Marty’s mother died when he was eighteen and a senior in high school. In the following year, his father was shot and killed trying to stop an armed robbery at a liquor store. He was off duty and out of uniform and, as it turned out, at the wrong place at the wrong time. It would have been a matter of pride for Patrolman Whitston to know that his final action in life was the killing of the two thieves.

Marty, taking an accounting course at Wayne State, by default became head of his family. He was in charge of his four younger brothers. He accepted this responsibility and did well with it.

In an effort to leave home in an honorable manner, as well as to bequeath responsibility for his siblings to the next in line, Marty enlisted in the Marines.

He was a Marine in training just long enough to be shipped to Vietnam in the early days of that conflict. He was quickly promoted to sergeant.

In Vietnam, Marty learned many things. Unlike his father, who was free to be a maverick cop, acting on his own, Marty was part of a team—his platoon. If he was to survive Vietnam, it would be as part of his outfit. Even then there was no guarantee that he would leave that green country alive. But the odds were better that way.

He learned that the moral standards that had been inculcated, principally by his mother, might be applicable stateside, but not in the jungle. So he went along with fraudulent body counts, fragging officers, whoring, stealing, and cheating.

He also learned to kill. It was his most distasteful and difficult lesson. His father might have cracked a few ribs, banged a few heads, but though he carried a loaded gun at all times, he had never fired it at anyone until his final action. Indeed, both Marty’s father and mother had lectured him on the sacredness of human life.

’Nam was a distinct reversal of priorities.

He killed the enemy, sometimes with gunfire, sometimes with grenades, sometimes in hand-to-hand combat. He torched villages and their inhabitants. He killed women and children because frequently women and children were the enemy. And if you didn’t kill them, they would kill you.

Of course, sometimes the women and children were not the enemy. But who could tell?

Barbara knew all this. She and Marty did not roll in the hay constantly. They talked. Mostly Barbara squeezed information and detail out of Marty. He reminisced reluctantly and slowly. Little by little Barbara had a working profile on him.

She was not at all clear on how she would use all this information, but she had stored it for future contingency. And this was that contingency.

She had concluded that under pressure Marty could revert to his alter persona of the jungle. And she now judged that her Al, his dedication to the bank, his volunteering, his likely reward of an executive vice presidency, his possible bumping of Marty out of a job—all of that could have provided sufficient pressure to impel Marty to revert to savage behavior.

And what might Marty do if he perceived he was again trapped in a kill-or-be-killed situation?

He might make some hasty moves to salt away some of the bank’s money. He might feather a nest that was in danger of falling from the bank that was his tree. He might arrange for the final solution as far as Al Ulrich was concerned. For someone who had killed so prodigally in the past, paying someone to do the job would be simplicity itself.

The doorbell rang. The moment of truth.

Barbara checked the peephole. It was the big guy. She opened the door.

His mouth dropped. He quickly stepped from the subtly lit hallway into the apartment. With one uninterrupted gesture he pulled apart the Velcroed straps. The dress fell to the floor.

He scooped her into his arms and practically charged into the bedroom. He dropped her the short distance onto the bed. In record time, his clothes were also dropped and lying where they landed.

She welcomed him. But she was not quite ready for him. That had not stopped him before and it did not now. She was uncomfortable. He was rougher than usual.

He tried to hold back to enhance his pleasure. But even after all these years, he could not. Not when it was Barbara.

Mercifully for her, it was over shortly. He rolled over, panting lightly. His arm was under her head, but he did not hold her. She did not expect more.

They lay silently for some moments. He had no words. She was trying to find a way to begin. “This is the first time, isn’t it, Marty?”

“Huh? First time? What …?”

“The first time we can really relax, is what I mean. No motel room, a different one every time. No cramped car. No secret meeting on vacation. No sneaking off together when Al or Lois is out of town. This is the first time we don’t have to worry. You didn’t even have to be concerned about a rubber. And I didn’t have to worry about the jelly or the diaphragm.”

Martin smiled and breathed deeply. “You mean because you’re pregnant.”

“Uh-huh.”

He thought about that for a few moments. Then he chuckled. “You’re right. I didn’t even think of that.”

“You didn’t?” She was surprised.

“I didn’t intend to screw you either.”

She turned toward him and raised herself on one elbow. She regarded him appraisingly. “For someone who didn’t intend to get under the sheets you damn near set a world’s record.”

“I wouldn’t be here at all if you hadn’t practically summoned me at the funeral home.” He glanced at his watch. “Good God, that was only a few hours ago. The body isn’t even cold yet.” He looked down at both of them, in indication of their nakedness.