Regarding Anna (23 page)

“No kidding.”

“And he has a son who’s not well, but I don’t have any details.”

“I kind of wish you hadn’t told me that. Now I feel sorry for him.”

“I did at first too. But nothing justifies the rotten things he does.”

“Yeah, I know.”

I hobbled back to my car and thought about the weather on my way home. About all the troops being sent to South Vietnam. About Julie Andrews winning Best Actress for her role in
My Fair Lady.
I thought about anything that would keep my mind off of Elmer Berghorn.

I arrived home to find a note from Minnie saying she was at the currency exchange to see what the Irish notes were worth. At least she couldn’t get into any trouble doing that—I didn’t think.

I put a pot on the stove for tea, and while I was waiting for the water to boil, the phone rang. It was Louise Fincutter.

“I’m in Detroit again but have reason to believe Erma is back home. I called my house, and no one answered, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t there. Could you go over there for me?”

“Sure. I can go there and see what’s going on. Could we also ask your neighbors?”

“You’ll see when you get there, there are no neighbors. If you don’t see anything obvious, feel free to go inside. The key is under the middle gnome on the back porch. And if that key is missing, I
know
she’s been there.”

“I’m on it, Louise.”

I left a note for Minnie and set off for Louise’s house. En route, I tried to think of a way to get back into Minnie’s attic, which reminded me that Minnie hadn’t given me the key back. It was clear I wouldn’t be able to climb a ladder given my bum knee, and Minnie had been clear she wasn’t going up there. Of course, I realized that the key might not be the key to the trunk at all, but I was hopeful nonetheless.

Louise lived on a short dead-end street near Burnham Park. There were only three homes on this street. Hers was the middle one. The other two had FOR SALE signs out front. Their lawns had turned into fields of weeds, the homes obviously vacant. This, of course, made it difficult for me to conduct surveillance without being conspicuous—why else would I be on this street unless it had to do with Louise?

Forgetting surveillance, I parked the car in Louise’s driveway, walked up to the front door, and knocked. A few minutes later, I walked around to the back and knocked on that door. When no one answered, I peeked under the middle gnome that was sitting off to the side. No key.

“What are you doing here?” a voice said, startling me to the point of almost losing my balance—crutches and all.

The girl had a tough look about her—too much makeup, tight clothes, dead eyes. I recognized her from the photographs Louise had given me.

“I’m Grace Lindroth, a friend of your mother’s.”

“How do you know my mother? I’ve never seen you here before.”

“I’m a new friend. I’ve seen photos of you. Can we talk?”

“About what?”

“For starters, your mother and aunt are very worried about you.”

“I’ll bet they are.”

“They’re in Detroit right now looking for you, and it’s not their first trip.”

“Can I use your car?”

“What?”

“I said, can I use your car? I need to go somewhere.”

She wasn’t going to make this easy.

“No, you may not use my car. Do I look like some kind of chump to you?”

“What happened to your leg?”

“I fell off a ladder.”

“My mom’s a nurse. Is that how you met her?”

“Could we go inside and talk? Standing on this gravel isn’t very comfortable for me.”

“Only if you take me somewhere afterward.”

“We’ll see.”

Erma and I talked for over an hour. Underneath that rough exterior was a not-so-rough girl whom I rather liked. In the end, she called the hotel where her mother and aunt were staying, apologized for her bad behavior, and asked them when they would be home. Afterward, I drove her to Montgomery Ward where she bought a new outfit with the leftover money she had gotten from her father, an outfit of which I was certain her mother would approve.

* * *

Minnie was waiting for me at the kitchen table.

“So, what did you find out?” I asked her.

Her eyes were wide. She shook her head.

I sat down in the chair opposite her. “What’s the matter? Say something.”

“You’re not going to believe this.”

“What? Tell me.”

She pulled a 100-pound note from her purse. “See this?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“This little sheet of paper is worth $321.28.”

“What!?”

“You heard me.”

“But you’ve got 372 of those little sheets of paper.”

“The whole way home on the bus, I tried to figure out how much that was, but I kept losing track. I was never good at math.”

“I can’t do it either without an adding machine, but even if you had just 300 of them and each one was only worth $300, that’s $90,000!”

She looked like she might faint.

“Are you all right?”

“Pour me a Scotch. Make it a big one. Pour yourself one too.” She seemed to have forgotten I was on crutches.

“Where’s the money?” I asked her as I prepared our drinks.

“It’s well hidden.”

“It needs to be in a more secure place—like a bank.”

“But it doesn’t even rightfully belong to me.”

“Let’s think about that. Assume it did belong to O’Gowan. If the man had a will, it would have gone to his heirs. Maybe. He wasn’t a U.S. citizen, so I don’t know whose law applies. It would go according to Irish law, I guess.”

We stared at each other for a long moment.

“It gets a bit complicated, doesn’t it?” she said.

“We’ll figure it out.”

“Gracie?”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe in the hereafter?”

What brought that up?
“I never thought about it very much. Why?”

“I don’t know. I was just thinking about my Muriel. Is she still six years old up in heaven, or is she the age she would have been if she was still here?”

I shook my head. I had enough trouble trying to figure out things that were in the here and now.

TWENTY-TWO

Minnie

I awoke from a fitful sleep, unsure if the reason was the $90,000 hidden somewhere in the house or something else or everything else. It was barely five o’clock, and knowing the chances of my getting back to sleep were slim, I got up and dressed.

I would have liked to have gone downstairs, put a pot of water on the stove, and had myself a cup or two of tea and a piece of toast, but the stairs terminated in Minnie’s bedroom, and I didn’t want to wake her. She usually got up around eight or so, but I couldn’t sit up in my room with nothing to do for more than two hours.

I grabbed my keys and crutches and headed toward the back foyer and out the back door. The outside stairs were steep, but I took my time and made it to the bottom without incident. I retrieved the newspaper from the front walk, let myself in the back door, and settled down in the kitchen with the paper and a cup of Earl Grey.

By eight o’clock, I had finished the paper, drunk three cups of tea, and had nothing to do but wait for Minnie to wake up.

After another half-hour passed, she still wasn’t up. She had never slept much past eight since I’d been there. I decided to give her another half hour.

At nine o’clock, I decided I was now worried. I tiptoed as best I could to her bedroom. It was a large room—her bed was fifteen feet or so from the door—and all I could see was a lump under the covers. Feeling somewhat like a cat burglar, I crept toward her. She was on her back with her arms crossed over her mid-section, sound asleep.

I left her alone and decided to wait another half-hour. If she wasn’t up by then, I would wake her.

At nine-thirty, I purposely started making lots of noise in the kitchen in an effort to rouse her. I clanked some pots and pans around and waited for her to come through the kitchen door chastising me for making such a racket. I could just imagine her yelling, “What on earth are you trying to do? Wake the dead?” I laughed out loud and decided enough was enough—I was going to go in and wake her.

She seemed so content lying there—like she didn’t have a care in the world—almost smiling. I hated to disturb her but figured that if I didn’t, she’d probably yell at me for that too.

I touched her arm lightly. “Minnie,” I whispered. “Minnie, get up. It’s almost ten.”

She didn’t move.

I gently shook her upper arm.

She still didn’t move.

Something was wrong.

I shook her arm vigorously.

There was no response.

“Minnie!” I shouted. “Wake up!”

I clomped as fast as I could to the phone and dialed 0.

“Please. I need an ambulance...right away!” I gave the operator the address. “Hurry, please!”

After propping the front door open with Minnie’s umbrella stand, I scrambled back to the bedroom, leaned over her, and listened for breathing. There was none. I checked her wrist. She had no pulse. Her face was stone cold. I tried to lift one of her arms, but it didn’t move, like something had it locked into place. I let my crutches fall to the floor and collapsed on the bed beside her.

“No, Minnie, no!”

I sat with her for I didn’t know how long, crying, until three uniformed men walked into the room. I picked up my crutches and got out of their way.

They surrounded her bed, so I couldn’t see what they were doing. In less than a minute, one of them turned toward me and shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Miss. She’s been gone a while.”

My good knee became weak, and I feared it wouldn’t support me. The attendant who had just spoken came to my rescue and guided me to Minnie’s overstuffed chair—her favorite chair. Elbows on my thighs, face in my hands, I sobbed uncontrollably.

“I’ll call the medical examiner,” one of them said.

A full minute passed before I could look up, and when I did I realized a policeman had joined us.

“Are you okay?” the policeman asked.

I didn’t respond.

“Her death appears to be due to natural causes. Do you have any reason to believe otherwise?” he asked.

“No.”

Wait. Maybe.

“I don’t know for sure,” I told him. “Can they check that out?”

“I can recommend an autopsy.”

“Just in case, I think they should.”

“The medical examiner is on his way,” said one of the attendants.

They placed a sheet over her body. I closed my eyes, still in disbelief.

The policeman asked me dozens of questions about Minnie and then explained what steps would be taken next. I nodded but retained nothing of what he’d told me.

He handed me a piece of paper with the number for the medical examiner and information about their procedures.

“Can you stick around to transport the body to Central?” the policeman asked one of the paramedics.

“I’ll have to check with dispatch,” he responded and left.

Shortly thereafter, the medical examiner arrived and officially pronounced her dead. I left the room when they proceeded to put her in a body bag.

“Is there anyone we can call for you, Miss?” the policeman asked.

“No. She’s all I had,” I told him through choked-back tears.

Everyone eventually left. Sitting there at the kitchen table, alone with my mournful thoughts, I contemplated how unfair it had been of me to be so hard on her when she had bungled that phone call. It hadn’t been her fault. If it hadn’t been for me, that call would never have happened.

I had one more cry before crawling back in bed, clothes and all.

* * *

Wilhelmina Ryleigh Lawless died on May 25, 1965—the day Muhammad Ali knocked out Sonny Liston two minutes into the first round for the World Heavyweight Championship title. I knew she would have been pleased that I went to the trouble of digging up that fact. She had loved boxing.

The medical examiner said she died from a massive heart attack and had signs of prolonged heart disease. She had never mentioned anything like that to me. I wondered if she even knew that herself. That she was thinking about her daughter in heaven the night before made me wonder if she’d had a premonition that she would be joining her soon. Knowing they’d been reunited helped me get through the pain of losing her.