Retribution: A Lew Fonesca Novel (Lew Fonesca Novels) (14 page)

“Nothing to apologize for,” Ames said.

“I suppose,” she sighed, shifting in her chair and looking back at the door again. “Clark and I hung on for more than ten years and you would have sworn it had been forgotten, but things like that never are in a small town. So, as soon as he could, Clark retired and here we are.”

“Why didn’t you move farther away?” I asked.

“Charlie and Clark’s mother is still in Arcadia. She wouldn’t move, wouldn’t come with us. We visit her every two weeks, take her out to dinner or eat at her place. People are polite and don’t ask questions.”

“You don’t have the answers,” I said.

“Don’t like the questions they don’t ask but want to,” she said as Clark came out of the door, a tall, clear glass of water with ice in one hand.

He walked over to Ames who took it and shook his head in thanks.

We all watched Ames’s Adam’s apple bob as he drank the water and the ice tinkled and then he handed the glass back to Dorsey with a thanks.

“There are some questions a man can’t live without an answer to,” said Ames. “They find the real one or they make one up that works.”

Dorsey nodded.

“Marvin just wants to talk to his sister,” I said. “Know she’s alive. He has something to tell her. I don’t know what. It may be that he thinks the Martians are attacking or that he loves her or that… I don’t know. He wants closure.”

I knew what it was like to want closure. I knew what had made me take on the search for Vera Lynn Uliaks Dorsey. If I couldn’t have my own closure, I could work at a job that had simple closure. Hand them the papers and walk away. Find the missing person and step back. Let the story play out. In a world of chaos where brilliant, beautiful women said good-bye one morning with a smile and then were mangled by the unknown, there had to be moments of closure or there would be a world of madness. That was why I saw Ann Horowitz. That was why I would find Vera Lynn. Closure for Marvin and maybe for the Dorseys.

“I just want to find her, talk to her,” I said.

“My husband and I, we’ll talk about it,” Peg Dorsey said, looking up at her husband.

Clark Dorsey turned to her and saw a small smile of reassurance. Then he turned to us and said, “We’ll talk about it. You have a card?”

I didn’t have a business card. I didn’t want one. I wasn’t searching for more than the business I already had. But I did have a small black notebook in my back pocket with lined pages. I wrote my name and number on a sheet and handed it to Dorsey who pocketed it.

“I’ll find her,” I said softly. “If you can help me, it’ll be faster, easier, cheaper. I’m not out to hurt anyone. And I’m sorry if I’ve brought some ghosts with us this morning.”

Dorsey nodded.

Ames and I got back in the car. Dorsey plunged both hands into his overall pockets. He was a big man, a few years too young for the retirement and isolation he had brought and bought, but who was I to judge. I was trying to do the same thing with my life.

“Well?” I asked as I drove slowly down the stone driveway of whipping branches.

“They’ll call you,” said Ames.

“Think so?”

“Could feel it in the glass when he handed it to me,” said Ames. “Held it steady, but there was a tightness there. He needs something closed too. House he’s working on remind you of somethin’?”

“A kid working with unmatched building sets,” I said.

“Three little pigs,” said Ames. “Stone, wood. One he’s working on is brick. He’s getting ready for the wolf to come.”

“McKinney instinct?” I asked.

“Book I read once by a man in Chicago named Bettle-heim,” said Ames. “Good book. But he had his own wolf at the door blowing hard. Lived a lot of lies. Bettleheim. Couldn’t take it anymore. Killed himself.”

“You think Clark Dorsey is losing out to a wolf in his dreams?”

“Could be,” Ames said.

“People handle their wolves different ways,” I said. “You take your gun, hunt them down, and shoot them. Some people can’t find their wolves.”

“And some people build houses or sit in rooms waiting for the wolf to find them,” Ames said.

I had the uneasy feeling Ames was talking about me. I already had a shrink. What I needed was a friend who could ride shotgun.

We didn’t say another word till we found Laura Lonsberg Guffey’s house in Venice.

Trying to think of nothing is hard to do. Try it for ten seconds. Try to keep memory from coming unbidden. I can distract myself with old movies and work and sometimes with a painful empathy for other people and their problems, but I’m too much a part of the world to find Nirvana. Memory creeps up, as it did now, and leaps at me like a dream wolf.

We drove and the wolf hovered over my shoulder, breathing hot, panting, smelling of both animal and the half-remembered scent of my wife at night.

The wolf was just one shape that haunted me, reminding me that somewhere far behind lived the person who had killed her and driven away. The wolf reminded me.

Today a wolf, later or tomorrow a bear, cat, tiger, dog, something under the bed or in a closet, just outside a door or lurking under the dark surface of a cup of coffee.

She liked her coffee black, her tea unsweetened, herbal, but not mint. Her favorite food was grilled seafood. She wore solids, purples, greens, and grays. Old jewelry. She had a necklace that looked like the one Scarlett O’Hara wore at the ball before the war. But she also liked colorful costume jewelry that contrasted with the solid colors. I always gave her clothes or jewelry for birthdays, anniversaries, and sometimes for no reason but that I saw something that seemed right for her. She always put it on immediately, throwing back her hair, asking me to fasten, hook as I inhaled.

When she was lost in thought, she tapped gently at a
tooth with the thumbnail of her left hand. Her nails were deep red because she knew it was my favorite color.

“We’re here,” Ames said.

We pulled up in front of a house. The wolf jumped out and disappeared.

LAURA LONSBERG LIVED
in a condo just off of Venice Beach. She was on the fifth floor of the ten-story building. It was a three-bedroom with a balcony overlooking the Gulf. Her two daughters, she told us when she answered the door, were at school.

We were expected or at least I was. Her father had called from a gas station the day before and said I would be coming.

“You should have called,” she said, ushering us in. “I’m usually at work on Fridays.”

The living room was moderate in size, big enough for a comfortable bright sofa, some chairs, and a pair of lamps that might have been real Tiffany. The balcony door was open and we could hear the not-too-distant sounds of people on the beach and splashing in the water. A gull landed on the balcony railing, cocked his head to one side, and looked at me. Then he flew away.

Ames and I sat.

“Coffee?” Laura Lonsberg asked. “I’ve got some hot.”

“Fine,” I said. “Cream, sugar.”

“Black,” said Ames.

She left the room and I looked after her. She was in her late thirties, good figure, and the inherited dark blond hair of her father. She also bore a distinct resemblance to him that most people would say made her look plain. I thought she looked strong and determined. I didn’t think this was going to take long. She was back almost immediately with steaming blue mugs with the word “Illinois” scripted in orange across them.

She sat across from us, no coffee, legs crossed, hands folded.

“Where do you work?” I asked.

“Hospital, billing department,” she said. “I’ll save you time so we can get to the real questions. I have two children, daughters. My husband’s name is Danny Guffey. I met him in high school, Riverview in Sarasota. His family was poor. Danny’s father owned a small dry-cleaning store. My father thought Danny was after my money. He said he would give us nothing till he died. Danny didn’t care. My husband is a chiropractor, a good one, a very successful one. He has offices in Venice and in Bradenton, a secretary, a bookkeeper, and two assistants. We have two beautiful girls who along with my nephew will, to anticipate one of your questions, inherit most of whatever my father is worth when he dies.”

“You know what happened?” I asked after taking a drink of the coffee. The coffee tasted like raspberries.

“The girl, Adele, took my father’s manuscripts,” she said. “He wants no publicity so he hired a private detective to find her, one, I understand, who actually knows the girl.”

“I’m not a private detective,” I said. “I do know Adele. How well did you get to know her?”

Laura Lonsberg Guffey picked up a glass owl from the small table in front of her and looked at it as if it would give her an answer.

“Not well,” she said. “I bring the girls over every week or two when the great man feels a need to see them. My husband doesn’t go. Sometimes Adele was there. Sometimes we talked. She’s bright, has a lot of energy, and has been through a lot.”

“She told you about…?”

“Yes,” said Laura, rolling the crystal owl from hand to hand. “I read some of the things she was writing. I think my father’s right. She’s talented.”

I said nothing.

“Was I jealous?” she asked. “Not really. I can’t write. I’m not interested. My major interest in writing is those manuscripts and the future of my daughters. My father made it clear when I finished college and married Danny that I was on my own. I accepted that. I think he was right.”

“And your brother?”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re asking, but, yes, he was on his own after he got his B.A. He’s a C.P.A. in Sarasota.”

“But he lives in Venice?” I asked.

“He prefers it here and doesn’t mind the drive,” she said, putting down the ball. “You can discuss that with him. As to the rest of your ambiguous question, no, my brother was not happy to be sent into the world with a few dollars and a college degree.”

“Your father and brother get along?”

“I’d say so, but I wouldn’t call them buddies. Brad has one son, Conrad Junior. Conrad Senior is fond of him. Brad’s wife died when Connie was a little boy. Brad’s wife and the great man did not get along. She fought the few times they met so they stayed away from each other. Conrad Lonsberg, when his daughter-in-law died, condescended to attend the funeral but drove away when he saw reporters hovering at the funeral home for a glimpse of the famous literary recluse. In any case, the manuscripts, as I said, were they to exist would go to my girls and my nephew.”

Silence and then she added, “So, you see there would be no point in Brad or me wanting to take the manuscripts if that’s what you’re thinking. There’s nothing we can do with them. All we can do is sit and wait till he dies. Even Conrad Lonsberg has to die sometime.”

“You don’t love him?” I asked.

“The great man? He treated my mother reasonably well, but if you’re a girl looking for warm, fuzzy, and protection
after her mother dies, Conrad is not the one to go to. Now for your next question. Was I worried about Conrad changing his will and putting Adele on it? The answer is ‘no.’ That’s not the way my father thinks. Read his books or his poems. He thinks people have to learn to take care of themselves. His grandchildren seem to be an exception.”

“Any idea why Adele might want to take your father’s manuscripts?”

“Adele’s a sharp kid, more than a kid, but Conrad knows how to hurt,” she said, putting the owl gently back on the table. “He wouldn’t touch her body, but he could play some painful games with her mind if he wanted to. He knows how to hurt.”

“Not one of your favorite people on the planet?”

“No,” she said simply. “Anything else?”

“Mickey Merrymen,” I said.

“Who?”

It sounded like an honest “who” to me, but I went on.

“Friend of Adele’s.”

“No. The only other person I ever saw her with was an old woman who drove her to Conrad’s a few times. I didn’t get her name, but she drove a big car and wore too much makeup. That it?”

“All I can think of,” I said. “Ames?”

“Conrad, the great man,” Ames said. “You don’t call him father or dad.”

“I don’t think of him that way,” she said. “Father is a word you earn by being one.”

“You think much of his writing?” Ames asked.

“He is a great man,” she answered with a shake of her head. “I really believe that even when I say it with a touch of sarcasm. A great writer.”

She gave us the address of her brother’s business office in Sarasota and we left. Back in the car, I asked Ames what he thought.

“One good real hug from her father would take away most of the bitterness,” he said.

“That simple?”

“In this case, I think maybe so.”

The conversation ended and we drove back to Sarasota.

It was late in the afternoon when we got back. We stopped at the Texas Bar and Grille for a quick bowl of chili. I called Brad Lonsberg’s office and asked if I could come over for a while.

“Sure,” he said. “I’m working on something now. Give me half an hour.”

The early-afternoon crowd was straggling into the Texas, some wearily glancing up at the television set where the news was on with no sound, some talking business or baseball. Some not talking.

The phone rang while we were finishing our chili. I noticed but didn’t pay any attention until Ed called over, “Lew, it’s for you.”

I left Ames working on his chili, moved to the bar, and picked up the phone.

“Fonesca,” I said.

“Adele,” she answered.

“How did you know I was here?” I asked.

“You weren’t at your office. I’ve just been looking.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve been looking for me,” she said. “Don’t. By the time you find me they’ll all be gone.”

“Lonsberg’s manuscripts?”

“Every page.”

“Why?”

“Because of what he did to me,” she said, trying to keep her voice down. “But you tell him. You tell him what I’m doing.”

I heard a car horn on the phone. I heard the same horn outside the Texas. I motioned for Ames who wiped his mouth with his napkin and lopped over.

“Mickey’s grandfather,” I said.

“Mickey’s …? What about him?”

“He’s dead,” I said. “You didn’t know?”