Missing Persons (20 page)

I sat at the kitchen table with my plate, a glass of water, and two aspirin for the almost certain hangover I would have. I stared at my name and address written in block letters on the plain brown wrapping paper covering the shoe box–size package.

“It looks like I ordered porn.” I laughed. “I wonder if the neighbors saw it and think that I’m burying my grief in sex tapes.”

I ripped open the brown paper, and sure enough, it was a shoe box. Women’s shoes.

“Someone sent me shoes,” I said to myself.

I opened the box and it was not shoes.

I threw the box on the table and jumped back. It was the dead bird from the other day, decidedly worse for the time that had elapsed.

 

 

“Your statement is that you came home, discovered the package, opened it, and found the same bird that had been left on your porch several days ago. Is that correct?” Detective Podeski sat on my couch in a dark, worn suit, while his partner stood nearby taking notes. I sat on the leather chair, my hands still shaking.

“Yes. That’s what I just told you.”

I hadn’t called Podeski. I’d called 911 to report a bird. In a shoe box. Maybe in some places that would have constituted a criminal act, but this was Chicago. I hadn’t expected anything. But I got quite a lot. First, a patrol car showed up, and then Detective Podeski, who had heard about my call on his police radio.

“Has anyone made threats against you?” he asked.

“No. Why would anyone make threats against me?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” He was a little grumpy. I guess getting a threatening package didn’t fit into his idea of me as coldblooded killer. “You mentioned the other day about letting us search your house. Does the offer still stand?”

“Of course. If you want to.”

“It will take us about a half hour.”

“I’ll make coffee, if you like.”

It occurred to me as I set out coffee mugs and Linda’s cookies that I had some very private things in drawers in my house. The electric bill with a Second Notice stamp on it, the nude sketch Frank had made of me years ago that I kept in the closet in case my mother dropped by, and most embarrassingly, the vibrator my sister, Ellen, had gotten me as a predivorce gift. I knew finding a vibrator wouldn’t faze the cop who was probably looking through my underwear drawer right now, but it bothered me. I felt even more violated than the bird on the porch had left me.

Podeski drank coffee, ate more than his fair share of the cookies, and watched, with clear delight, how nervous I was becoming. But he said nothing. One of the officers who had arrived in the patrol car walked into the living room and motioned for Podeski. The men walked into the hallway that led to the kitchen. I could see them chatting for a few minutes and then Podeski came back, holding a pair of black leather pumps.

“Are these yours, Mrs. Conway?”

“Yes. I bought them for my husband’s funeral.”

“Did you throw the box out?”

“No. I had my shoes in them. That’s how I store my nicer shoes.”

“Where were they?” he asked.

“In my closet,” I said, then it dawned on me. “That isn’t . . .”

“These match the box. Whoever left that bird on your front porch used a box from your closet.”

I stood up. “The other night I thought someone had been in the house, but I wasn’t sure.”

“Was something taken?”

“No.” I felt a little stupid even saying it. “I had photos and photo albums in the kitchen. They looked”—I hesitated—“neater. Like someone had arranged them.”

“But you didn’t call the police.”

“And say what? Someone broke into my house and straightened up?”

He nodded. “It’s possible that someone is trying to frighten you or warn you. And it’s possible you put a bird in a box and called the police so we would think someone was trying to frighten you.”

“And I used my own shoe box? Wouldn’t it have been smarter to buy a pair of men’s shoes, dump the shoes, and use the box?”

The corners of his mouth turned up into a slight smile. “You are a clever woman, Mrs. Conway.”

I let that pass without comment. “There might be fingerprints,” I pointed out.

“We’ll check the paper and the box. You call a friend or go somewhere to spend the night. Maybe Ms. Bingham would come over.”

“Vera? Why would she come over?”

“Why did she come over the other day?”

“To bring some of Frank’s things back. Are you watching the house?”

“No, ma’am.” He nodded toward the other officers and they left the house, taking the box and its contents with them. “Lock the doors behind us, Mrs. Conway.”

I did. And then I checked that the locks were secure, the windows were latched, and even the flue to the fireplace was closed.

I thought about calling someone, but by the time the police left, it was nearly three in the morning. I couldn’t imagine getting my sister or one of my friends out of bed because of a dead bird. But for the second night in a row, I wasn’t going to sleep either.

I grabbed a quilt my grandmother had made and wrapped it around me. I lay on the couch, turned on the TV, and watched an infomercial about a new brand of makeup. According to their spokeswoman, a once-famous sitcom star, their product didn’t just make you look better ; it brought with it romance, success, and glamour. All of that would be nice another time. Right now all I wanted was daylight.

I
left the house early and went for a walk. I saw a few neighbors out with their dogs and stopped each of them. No one had seen anyone at my front door the day before.

I went to a diner for breakfast but just pushed around the eggs and hash browns. I had a raging headache, not all of which could be blamed on alcohol. I’d slept maybe two hours, and even then I’d had terrible dreams.

It had to be true. Someone had killed Frank and was now trying to scare me. I had asked questions. I’d gone to the doctor, then Podeski, Vera, and Neal. Was Frank’s killer really afraid I’d find the truth? Because if that was the case, the killer had greater faith in my investigative skills than I did.

Or maybe it was someone connected to Theresa’s disappearance. Maybe I’d asked a question that made it look like I knew something I didn’t. But that was even more absurd. A few days from now, I could be working on a three-part documentary about the origins of man or an hour-long salute to cheese, and Theresa would just be one more entry on my IMDb Web page.

Besides, we were done shooting the episode. If I had spent any part of the last week with her killer, then so be it. The good news for that person, and me, was we would never have to see each other again.

I left my plate barely touched, paid my check, and walked a few blocks. I didn’t feel like going home. It wasn’t that I felt too afraid to enter my own house, though that was certainly part of it. I just felt restless. I’d been putting off a phone call. I was even more reluctant to make it now, but I was running out of excuses. Besides, if I were making a list of people who might want to keep me from uncovering a killer, one name seemed obvious.

“Vera? You mentioned something about going through the rest of Frank’s stuff. Is today okay?”

I heard dogs barking in the background. “Sure,” she said. “Come over now if you like. I’m home all day. Do you like dogs?”

“Love them.”

I don’t really. They drool, and they sniff inappropriate places. They assume you want to spend time with them, even when you don’t, so they push their way in and demand your attention. I suppose they’re nice enough, but whatever you give them they want more. They remind me of producers, so maybe that’s the problem.

 

 

Vera lived in a gray stone building a few blocks from Lake Michigan. A lot of these wonderful old houses have been converted to condos, but it was clear from the single name on the mailbox that this one wasn’t. And why should it be? She was a Knutson Foods heiress.

I was greeted at her door by two enormous but harmless-looking greyhounds. They must have found me equally inoffensive because neither went for my throat.

“This is Daisy and this is Jay.” Vera petted the heads of each dog as she spoke.

“Like characters from
The Great Gatsby
?”

She smiled. “Do you know most people don’t get that reference? I loved that book and I figured it would be sweet if the two lovebirds got together in the end.”

“But they don’t. Daisy stays with her husband, and Jay Gatsby ends up dead in his swimming pool.”

Vera shrugged. “Well, my Jay and Daisy are having a happy ending.” She led me from the entryway through a hall that led to a large kitchen with modern appliances surrounded by solid, expensive woodwork.

“This is a beautiful place,” I said, which hardly did it justice. It was filled with the details of hundred-year-old houses: carved wood moldings, stained glass, and inlaid tile. Outside was a decent-size backyard for a city lot. Except for the neglected garden it would be a nice place to spend a summer evening. “How long have you lived here?”

“Almost twenty years. My father gave it to me as a wedding present, but smart man that he is, he stipulated that it would go to me alone in the event of a divorce.”

“Why did you get divorced?”

She blushed. “He cheated on me.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“I know. It’s ironic. Except my husband didn’t just cheat on me, he turned it into something of a mission to bed every woman in the Chicago phone book.”

“Where is he now?”

“Probably on the
M
s.”

I laughed. I was, unfortunately, beginning to see what Frank saw in Vera.

“You have more of Frank’s stuff to sort through,” I said.

“Yes, upstairs. But there’s no hurry. Have some coffee first. Tell me about your week.”

She got us both coffee and then directed me to a small table near the back window. I sipped my third coffee of the morning and just enjoyed the view for a while before speaking.

“Nothing to tell,” I said eventually. “I’ve been working on a show called
Missing Persons
. We’re doing an episode on a twenty-two-year-old woman from Bridgeport.”

“What happened to her?”

“I don’t know. She walked out of her mother’s house a year ago and hasn’t been seen since.”

Vera rested her hand on the head of one of the greyhounds, who was in turn resting its head on Vera’s lap. “That sounds like such exciting work.”

“It can be,” I said.

“I envy you having a career like that. I find the days just run together because I don’t really have anywhere to go.”

“I thought you started businesses with friends.”

She shrugged. “I help people who need start-up capital. I’m not sure they’re friends. I’m not very good at making friends.” She laughed, a self-conscious, embarrassed laugh.

“You have that woman who came to the wake with you.”

“Susan.”

“That can’t have been a fun evening for her, but she went because she’s your friend.”

Vera stared at me a moment, as if considering what to say next. “I guess so,” she said. “How are you doing? Are you sleeping? I’m not sleeping through the night yet.”

“Slept like a baby last night,” I lied.

I looked for signs of surprise but couldn’t find any. If Vera was a nut job who broke into my house and left dead birds on my porch, she was hiding it well.

Sitting with her it was hard to imagine her that way. She didn’t seem like a nut job. Or a home wrecker, for that matter. Maybe I was just looking to blame her for everything. Maybe she was just a nice woman who turned out to be the final straw in a marriage already about to collapse. Besides, the dogs liked her. I may not be a dog lover myself, but I do think they’re a pretty good judge of character.

“Are you okay?” Vera asked. “You look a little sick.”

“I’m fine. I was looking at the dog. Greyhounds are an unusual choice.”

“They’re rescue dogs. From the racetrack. When they retire from that, there are organizations that find them homes where they’ll be loved and allowed to enjoy the rest of their lives.”

“You take in retired race dogs and help your friends start businesses. You need to be needed,” I said.

“Don’t you?”

“No. I actually don’t like being needed,” I admitted. “Was Frank a project? Someone who needed you?”

She smiled. She should have been insulted and maybe she was, but her smile was warm and open. “I hope he needed me. I needed him. I think that’s what brought us together.”

Even though I’d asked the question, that was as much insight into their relationship as I wanted for one day.

“We should go through Frank’s stuff,” I said.

We went upstairs to her bedroom, a smallish room by modern standards, but beautifully decorated, with a Matisse hanging over the bed. Must be nice.

We sorted his jeans, T-shirts, dress shirts, belts, and shoes in less than an hour. Vera held on to a couple of shirts they must have bought together. I took two T-shirts, one from a Bruce Springsteen concert we’d attended, the other from a long-ago trip to Bermuda. The rest we boxed up for a Goodwill store in my neighborhood and I promised to drop them there during the week.

Vera gave me Frank’s watch, the tie clips, and his father’s dog tags, as well as his wallet and a box of souvenirs from his high school basketball days.

“I’ll give all of this stuff to his parents,” I told her.

“I also have some of his sketches they might like. I think they’re downstairs.”

She left me in the room alone, and as I’m inclined to do, I snooped. Nothing too intense, I just peeked into her closet and the top drawer of her dresser. There was nothing special until I looked at the nightstand. In a simple silver frame was a photo of Frank and Vera, holding each other and smiling.