Regarding Anna (28 page)

As I drove to the bank, for some reason I was reminded of a conversation Minnie and I had had over a few Scotches one evening when she asked me where I saw myself in five years. I told her I didn’t know, wouldn’t know until I knew who I was. She’d quoted one of her late husband’s favorite authors, Napoleon Hill. “A goal is a dream with a deadline,” she had said. I liked that quote. Then she advised me to not be like her and wallow my way through life without dreams and goals. I vowed never to lose sight of that wisdom.

I neared Six Corners and parked the car in an open lot—another one of Tymon’s suggestions—and armed with the power-of-attorney letter, I entered Minnie’s bank and asked for her safe deposit box. The clerk brought it into a small room assigned to me and unlocked his half while I unlocked the other. As soon as he left, I opened the box and realized there wasn’t enough room in it for the thick stash of money I had. I rang for the clerk and asked if I could rent a larger box. When he came back with the new box and paperwork to sign, I noticed the new key was a different style than the one for the smaller box. I asked him about it.

“We probably have six different style keys here,” he said. “Most banks do.”

I showed him my other key. “So this other key I have could belong to any number of banks?”

He examined the edge of the key.

“They all have serial numbers. Do you want me see if this is one of ours?”

“Sure.” I had never noticed a number stamped on the edge—more of my first-rate investigative skills hard at work.

He came back in a few minutes with a thick ledger.

“It was ours.”

“Was?”

“It went to the city’s unclaimed property office on...let’s see...June 1.”

“Of this year?”

“Yes.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No ma’am. When someone fails to pay the rent, we try our best to locate the owner or, in cases where the owner died, their heirs. And if we can’t locate anyone, we’re obligated to keep it five years, and that was up on June 1.”

Ten days ago. What timing!

After the clerk left, I put everything in the new box and—taking a chance that he was available to see me for a few minutes—drove to Minnie’s attorney’s office. There I learned that Mr. Webb was in court, so I left him a message about my parents’ safe deposit box.

My next stop was the District 16 police station, where I picked up a copy of the police report on the break-in and dropped off the crumpled photo and cigarette butt I had found after the ransacking. I asked the policeman behind the counter if I gave him the name of who I thought did it, could they see if their fingerprints matched those on the photo. I already knew the answer to this question but wanted to hear it from him.

“Not without probable cause, lady. What would you like us to do with the cigarette butt?”

“I thought it could be evidence. If you have a suspect and he smokes that brand...”

“Whatever you say.”

My next stop was the Ace Hardware store, where I picked up ten rubber doorstops. After buying a few essentials at the grocery store, I had enough cash left for three gallons of gas.

The first thing I did when I got home was place three rubber doorstops under each of the outside doors. I wasn’t sure how secure that was, but it beat the pile of pots and pans I had been using. Then I made some lunch and thought about where I should be focusing my time—seeking revenge on Elmer, working on Attic Finds, or getting a life. It was a tough call. I was grateful when the phone interrupted my thoughts.

It was Fern. She told me Essie hadn’t come to church on Sunday, and when she’d asked one of the elders about her, he’d said she moved away and didn’t leave a forwarding address. Fern had then called the Cicero Baird & Warner office where Essie worked and was told she no longer worked there.

I would have kicked myself if I could have.

“Moved away? Just like that?” I asked her.

“That’s what I was told. I asked around, and no one seems to know anything.”

“Great. So where does that leave us?”

“You’re the private eye. Can’t you do something to find her?”

“I could. But then what? It appears she doesn’t want to tell either one of us what she knows.”

“I’ve been thinking about that. What could she possibly know that is so remarkable that it would change someone else’s life and make her so afraid to say anything that she ups and moves away? I don’t know anything that would fit that scenario.”

“It must have something to do with Anna’s death, don’t you think?”

“So let’s say she knows who killed her. And let’s say when Essie said it would change a girl’s life, she was referring to you. Would that change your life?” she asked me.

“Depends on who it was, I suppose. I don’t know. Maybe if we put our heads together we could come up with something. Want to come over?”

We planned to get together Friday after work. She’d bring the pizza—I’d supply the beer.

While I waited for Tymon to arrive to fix a leaky pipe under the kitchen sink, I called each of the Irish organizations the reference librarian had provided to ask them for a list of Irish Sweepstakes winners. None was able to do it straight away, but all three agreed to see what they could find.

A loud knock on the back door startled me. I figured it was Tymon.

I opened the door with a big smile only to find myself standing face-to-face with Elmer Berghorn.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Desperation

Without saying a word, Elmer shoved me out of the way and closed the door.

I stumbled several steps back and teetered for a few long seconds before dropping one of my crutches, which he kicked to the side. To regain my balance, I grabbed onto the corner of the large island in the middle of the room.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I asked.

Five feet in front of me, Elmer stood with his fists clenched, his eyes narrow slits. In the eight months I had worked in the same office with him, I’d never seen his face look anything like that—so distorted and perverse. The scant light that trickled in from the small window onto his face caused him to appear more apparitional than human.

“Where is it?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Where is what?” I asked inching back away from him.

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“No, I don’t.”

What does he have in his hand?

“I know you found it.”

He edged closer, and I took a long step back, struggling to balance on one crutch, the thumping of my heart against my rib cage only adding to my unsteadiness.

“You better leave before I call the police.”

He took another step toward me, and I took another step backward. My back was now up against the refrigerator. I scanned the island for something I could use to hit him or throw at him if I needed to, but there was nothing within my reach. I considered confessing to having the Irish money and offering to take him to the bank for it. I didn’t know how far I should go and also didn’t know how far he
would
go.

He glanced over at the phone on the other side of the kitchen and arched a sly brow. “No, you won’t.”

“You need to leave.” I was barely able to get the words out.

“Not until you hand it over, and if you want to find out how serious I am, continue to play dumb.”

He started to take another step closer, and when I raised my remaining crutch up toward his head in an effort to stop him, he snatched it out of my hand with a vicious yank and threw it across the room. The formidable sound of it slamming against the wall caused me to jump. I considered running but was afraid my knee wouldn’t hold up to that. The rush of blood that surged through my veins made me feel faint.

“If you don’t hand it over, Gracie,” he said, spitting out my name like it was poison, “you’ll need someone a lot better than your boy Tymon for protection.”

That he called me Gracie was unnerving—only Tymon, Minnie, and my mother had ever called me that.

“Look, Elmer, I don’t have anything you—”

“And if you even think of calling the police, try this on for size, golden girl. I don’t suppose you know that my dear cousin Henry is dead. Poor soul. I found him crumpled up in a heap on his cement patio.” He relaxed his posture, almost like he was enjoying a little chitchat with a friend. “And wouldn’t you know it, just the other day he was telling me about how your little Miss Minnie made some threats against him. Now the police think he fell off his second-floor deck after having a bit too much to drink—which, knowing that boozer, was a likely story. But if I told them
you
were the one who made those threats, I think that would open up a nice little investigation ...making your life a living hell.”

“What makes you think they’d believe you?”

“The grieving relative? The one who found his poor broken body that evening?”

“You’ll never get away with it.”

He took another step closer, his face so tense it looked like it might shatter. I glanced to the right, but there was nothing to hold on to, so I sidestepped back to the island, putting more distance between us.

“Too bad Mommy and Daddy aren’t around to help you,” he said sarcastically.

My body stiffened at the remark, the anger rising up in my throat like bile.

“You leave them out of this.”

He took another step closer, forcing me back one more step along the base of the island.

“Oh, I know all about your parents, darlin’,” he said with lips curled in icy contempt. “I know about their connection to this house and, best of all, what’s hidden here.”

I continued stepping backward until I reached a corner.

“You’re bluffing.”

For every forward step he had taken, I had moved two steps back, but eventually I had nowhere to go. I was halfway around the island—ten feet from the back door in one direction and ten feet from the entrance to the hallway in the other. Given his position directly across the island from me, he could have easily caught me before I reached either escape route, even if I had been able to run.

He laughed. “Bluffing, you think? Think again.”

“You won’t get away with this.” I couldn’t remember if I had already said that.

“What, telling the police you threatened Henry? Oh, I’ll get away with it all right. Because my friend Naomi will back me up on it.”

I was pulled back to a psychology class exercise I had gone through in school. I forced myself to relax—first my facial muscles and then my neck and on down my body—until I was able to collect myself and speak to him calmly. I kept my voice low and steady, taking on as much of a sympathetic tone as I could muster.

“Elmer, I know why you’re doing this. You’re a desperate man, and I completely understand your motive.” My heart was beating so vigorously that I couldn’t hear my own words, but I kept talking anyway, hoping that what I was saying made sense and had the right impact.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I know about your son and your wife’s death.”

A wave of red took mere seconds to ripple up his neck.

“You don’t understand shit!” he said, almost choking on his rage.

“But I do. How
is
your son?”

“Stop talking about him!”

“Is he doing better?”

“Shut up!” he bellowed.

Then his demeanor shifted. His eyes rolled skyward, and his body haphazardly swayed from side to side. He cried out, “It wasn’t her fault!”

Both of his hands were now palms down on the counter, his arms stiff as metal rods. The veins on the top of his right hand stood out from the tight grip he had on what appeared to be a ring of keys.

“It was
my
fault for forcing myself on you, Hazel! I’m so sorry,” he said through a prolonged wail. His gaze was still directed up, and I didn’t think he knew at that instant where he was or who else was in the room. “If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be here.”

Then his voice transitioned from quivery and loud to soft and contrite as though something had broken the spell of his rage. “I tried to get him the help he needs, but I never could afford it. And he deserved that help.” He whimpered as if surrendering to his failure as a father. “He still does.”

The atmosphere in the room turned eerily calm, sending shivers down my back.