Return to Dust (5 page)

I considered the question a serious one, though I knew Hank often got a bit mocking about his roots. After all, he lives in a divided household where his imperious father is a nominal Roman Catholic while his mother is a Buddhist, and his maternal grandmother whispers Confucian precepts in his ear all the time. He'd rather listen to hip-hop dance music or whatever faddish noise is blaring off satellite radio.

I was born a Buddhist. I believe that because the only thing I carried from the Catholic orphanage was a tattered, faded brown-covered paperback, slim as a calendar, that my mother supposedly left with me. It's my only proof—my only family heirloom.
The Sayings of Buddha
. I still cherish it. In Hank's house there is a shrine to the Virgin Mary and Jesus covered with palms from Palm Sunday Mass. But there is also a Buddhist shrine next to it, dedicated to dead relatives—you see it the minute you walk into the kitchen. Sticks of powerful incense, a bowl of blood-red oranges, joss sticks, and bright glossy icons. I always think of my mother when I see it. Sometimes I believe I see her bowing before the shrine.

My unknown but beloved mother.

“Earth to Rick.” Hank waved his hand in front of my face.

“Sorry, my mind drifted.”

“Back to that orphanage?”

I didn't answer, bothered by his flippancy. But then I said, “As a matter of fact, yes.” Those pithy, wonderful sayings come at me every so often. I listen to them. They warn me of danger. They humble me, level me. So now, thinking of murder, I found myself thinking of Buddha. “Always appropriate, let me tell you,” I said to Hank. “Buddha would say: ‘When you think you are at the beginning, then you are really at the end.'”

“I'm confused.”

“I know, but that's all right.”

He watched me closely. “I'm starting to think you believe Marta Kowalski was murdered.”

The moment he spoke those words, a little mockingly, a boyish glint in his eye, I froze. Yes, I realized—some gut instinct told me there was more to the story than the sad suicide of an old depressed cleaning woman.

Hank was shaking his head.

I told him, “The end of the story is already in my hands. Another quote: ‘You start the journey in one place and you at that moment have reached your destination.'”

“So we have to investigate.”

“We do.”

“I'll talk to Grandma.”

“Once again we're partners.”

“TV Associates.” He sat back, triumphant.

An old joke—perhaps not a joke any longer. Tan and Viet, partners. Blood brothers. The firm he envisioned down the road: TV Associates, Private Investigation. Private eyes on the world of crime and punishment. Superheroes. His dream and, I supposed, mine. Brothers born out of a country of monsoons and banyan trees, the whisper of jasmine always in the air. Tan and Viet. For a new America.

But first—Vuong Ky Do. A diplomatic interrogation of one of the shattered souls who wanted to forget that land of monsoons and banyan trees and the scent of jasmine. What that man had burned onto his soul was the stormy South China Sea and the approaching Thai pirates with death in their hearts.

Chapter Six

Vinnie joined me in the cafeteria for a late lunch. I'd spotted him after my class and asked him to join me. One of my good friends on the faculty, Vinnie is a math professor I met a few years back when we huddled together at a dreary staff meeting that went on too long—he kept nudging me to stay awake—and we became fast friends. I like his blunt manner, the way he deals with garrulous staff members, cutting through their verbiage, and sinking cynical shots at their arguments. He also relishes crime and punishment—not the novel, but the theory. He teaches geometry and pre-calculus, which I consider runic language, and, like Hank Nguyen, he has a keen interest in my lackluster, mechanical investigations. As a mathematician, he claims he can contribute a logical and geometrical approach to solutions.

I was in the middle of mentioning Marta Kowalski—he'd known her and we'd talked of her suicide—when his wife joined us. Marcie taught American literature in the English Department, but she's also Vinnie's bookend. When you see one, chances are great the other will shortly appear. I stopped in mid-sentence, let her deposit her tray of tuna salad and tomato soup on the table.

“What are you boys plotting?”

I laughed. “Why? Do we look conspiratorial?”

“You bet. Vinnie leaning in, expectant. You, wide-eyed with a secret to share. Two little boys without marbles.”

“That sums it up,” I told her.

I outlined my new case, Vinnie and Marcie leaning in now, elbows on the table. They were fun to be with, and both thought my life as a PI was fascinating. I kept telling them it wasn't. Usually it wasn't—that much was true.

An unlikely couple, this long-married pair. Both a little chubby, both in their late thirties, maybe early forties, eager assistant professors, they often were mistaken for brother and sister: dark, round, with flat, melon faces, big mooncalf eyes set wide apart. They lived for weekends in New York or Boston—and for dining out. I never asked how the two met, but they differed in everything but looks. Vinnie is rock-bottom conservative, not so right wing that he'd thump a Bible or beat up a save-the-whale advocate or dump tea bags off a same-sex marriage cruise ship, but certainly sleeping with real-estate Republicans. Marcie, on the other hand, is a vocal firebrand, an unreconstructed liberal of the old order, resident feminist, part of the rag-tag Democratic mystique of left-of-center radicals born back in the Reagan era. You'd recognize her by the FREE TIBET or PRO CHOICE bumper stickers on her Volvo. How they didn't kill each other I never knew. But they joked endlessly, often ribbing each other in ways others would see as fodder for a wild and wooly episode on TV divorce court. Whatever they did worked—they obviously loved each other to death.

“You both knew Marta,” I said.

“But murder?” Vinnie's question hung in the air. “I was surprised and all—what with the suicide—but murder?”

Marcie was shaking her head. “Now that you mention it…”

Vinnie groaned. “Oh, God, not a conspiracy theory.”

She punched him in the arm. “Be that as it may, I think we need to look…”

I held up my hand, traffic cop style. “Wait, you two, wait. This is my case. Nobody's talking murder yet. Nobody. And the only reason I'm bringing it up—even though I know I'll regret it since you'll both be rapping on my chamber door—is because you both are on my list of people to interview.”

Triumphant, Vinnie said, “I've always wanted to be a suspect in a murder.”

“A suspect, all right,” his wife added.

“You got a minute to talk?” I asked. I'd already taken my laptop from my carrying case, positioned it on the table—I rarely left home without it—and ran my fingers over the keyboard. Marcie and Vinnie, seemingly startled into seriousness by the presence of the electronic age, stared at it. I detected the natural nervousness that always resulted when questioning anyone about a—well, maybe a murder. I recalled the looks from my days as a patrolman back in New York. The humor abruptly stopped as Marcie decorously folded her hands in her lap, ignoring her lunch, while Vinnie scratched his head, eyes narrowed, as though I'd asked him a perplexing question.

I looked from one to the other. “When was the last time you saw Marta?”

Quiet a second, they looked at each other as though waiting for the other to answer. Vinnie spoke up. “A short time before her death. Late August sometime. Just before classes started, I think. Right, Marcie?”

She nodded. “Yes, we were really busy with school meetings but getting ready for visitors—folks coming for a party for Vinnie's mom. We asked Marta to help us get the house ready. You know, housekeeping.”

“Anything odd about her?”

They both shook their heads vigorously. Marcie glanced first at Vinnie. “If anything, she acted the way she always did. I mean, we'd hired her before, of course—sooner or later, everyone in town hired her—but she could be…difficult.”

“Difficult?”

“You know—tell you what she thought, even if you didn't ask her. If you left a letter out, she wasn't happy until she read it.”

Vinnie added, “A snoop.”

“We didn't talk much, but she seemed in a good mood. I remember it made me nervous—she actually sang as she worked.”

“In fact,” Vinnie added, “I remember she said something about traveling. A trip planned…somewhere.”

“No signs of depression?”

They both shook their heads. Vinnie went on. “Far from it. Of course, this was before she learned her old friend had died.”

Marcie broke in, “She did mention Joshua Jennings, though. Pissed off that he'd ended their friendship. But I remember now that she said something strange—he would eventually come to his senses and return to Farmington.”

Vinnie continued, “Later on I heard she was bothered—really bothered—when Joshua Jennings died. Stunned, in fact. But I didn't see her at all during that time.”

“Who told you?”

Marcie spoke up. “I did. I bumped into her friend Hattie, you know, the one she always traveled with. She told me Marta was in the dumps. I think I said I wanted to call Marta for some fall housekeeping—clear some summer stuff out—and Hattie said, well, good luck with that. Marta had slipped into a deep funk because of Joshua dying.”

“Did Hattie say anything else?”

“No. Hattie didn't make too big a deal out of it.
She
wasn't depressed, I can tell you. ‘You know how Marta is,' she hissed. ‘If it ain't a melodrama, it ain't anything on TV.' A week later Marta was dead.”

I summarized their comments onto the laptop, while they watched. My fingers stopped. “Were you surprised at the suicide?”

A long silence. Then Marcie spoke softly. “I hoped it was an accident. Frankly, I didn't care for her—too judgmental. She refused to dust my framed letter from Obama….”

“A form letter, autopen signature,” said Vinnie.

Marcie frowned. “Whatever.” A deep sigh. “She was happy at our house. I can picture her beaming as she straightened out the rec room, getting the beds ready for our visiting nephews. I hate the idea that she chose her death.”

“But her later funk…”

“If she got down, it was well—normal. I was sad when I learned Joshua had died. I liked him. We all liked the old man, but he was frail, sick. He'd become a hermit at the end, cranky, determined to recapture a life he'd lived a half-century before by moving to his old college town. Old people die.”

“I agree,” Vinnie added. “I couldn't see her committing suicide. I always thought she just fell.”

“The police classified it a suicide.”

“Why would anyone murder her?” Marcie's voice was too loud. “Really? What was there to be gained? Nothing.” She took a bite out of her salad, sat back, finished with the subject.

Hearing a voice behind me, I swiveled and faced another young professor, Peter Canterbury, as he approached us.

“This looks serious.” He pulled up a chair.

He was sipping orange juice from a container, the straw bent. A lawyer—and proud of it. Peter taught government and pre-law, and was closer to Vinnie and Marcie than to me. A little too chummy, I always thought—that, and a competitive streak that wasn't attractive. Marcie liked him—he'd been a scholarship boy who'd pushed his way up. His father was a disaffected sixties hippie, a potter and weaver who had no loyalty to the woman he'd married. A bright student, Peter earned a Wesleyan scholarship, a law degree from New England Law in Springfield.

We'd started an off-and-on friendship some time back, both of us single and wandering, but most times we just didn't click. He was a grasping man, and I came to see him as a game-player. A lean, hungry man, and you know what Shakespeare said about such souls. In fact, he'd played King Lear in a college production of the classic. We'd applauded him but suggested he stick to law. He wasn't good.

As single guys we sometimes hung out together, going to Wolf Pack hockey games in downtown Hartford. We'd drive to Foxboro for a Patriots game. That kind of thing. He dragged me once to Hooters but I balked—too much raw hunger, beer suds, and stalled pickups in the parking lot.

All this activity happened before he married a woman named Selena. She and I had dated briefly and intensely one long, hot summer, but she threw me over for Peter. We'd been out to dinner during which we probably exchanged five coherent words.

“You'll always be poor,” she said to me, dismissing me.

Then she married Peter, which stunned us. Yes, he was good-looking, and a lawyer. But he was ginger ale, and Selena saw herself as champagne. And because of my brief, unhappy fling with Selena, Peter often avoided me—or sniped at me. According to Marcie, he harbored suspicions about Selena and me, convinced we still had a thing for each other. There were no grounds for such thinking, of course. Selena looked through me, and I—well, looked beyond her. Yet Peter was afraid of me. That, coupled with what turned out to be a fragile marriage, spitfire quarrels in public, made life rough for him. When she drank, Selena flirted. She also flirted when she was sober, but not so obviously. A beautiful woman who understood men's weaknesses, she'd even continued flirting with me because it was her way of annoying Peter. It had nothing to do with me. As far as I'm concerned, it was over. I had no feeling for Selena.

“Join us,” Marcie told him. I wish she hadn't.

“Nobody's laughing at this table.” He was watching Marcie, avoiding me.

Marcie grinned. “This is business, Peter.” She lowered her voice melodramatically. I laughed out loud, and Peter squinted, waiting for a punch line. “Rick has been hired to investigate Marta Kowalski's death.”

For the first time Peter looked at me, a crooked smile that suggested people were crazy to put their trust in a bumpkin such as myself, but he said nothing.

I closed my laptop, and kept still.

Vinnie abruptly changed the conversation, drifting onto some school politics he was hot about, and Marcie countered him. The sparks flew. I stood up. “I need to leave.” I waved good-bye. “I'm headed to meet Karen at her aunt's home.”

“Why?” From Vinnie.

“To pick up some papers and to scout around.”

Everyone stood up, and Peter glanced at his watch. “I'll walk out with you. I'm already late. Selena's in the parking lot.”

We didn't speak for the few minutes it took us to get outside. Once there, Selena looked startled to see the two of us together, but she flashed a broad smile. She was leaning against her car, bundled up, a knit cap pulled over her forehead. Despite the mild chill in the air, she seemed ready for an Arctic blast.

“My, my, dear Rick.”

Peter frowned. “Selena.” He mumbled the name.

I felt his eyes darting from her to me. Christ, I thought—must every encounter be a test?

“Well, well, well,” Selena hummed. “If it ain't Bruce Lee.” A pause. “Or the Karate Kid, revisited.”

“Hello, Selena,” I smiled back.

Saying nothing, Peter climbed into the passenger seat, leaning over to open the driver's door for Selena. She was still standing outside, watching me. Through the glass I could see Peter's face—rigid, disapproving—curious expressions for such a soft, pliant face. Selena's head swerved, catching a glimpse of Peter, and she smiled.

“Looking handsome.” She winked at me, but her voice was too loud, almost strident.

Peter leaned on the horn.

“Come on, Selena, for Christ's sake.”

Marcie once told me, “They never learned how to get it right—marriage. You can't get married for all the wrong reasons.”

I'd thought of my marriage to Liz—wrong, as well, but we never stopped loving each other.

They drove off, but Peter's wild gestures suggested another fight. As the car turned, I saw his face—hot, flushed. Selena, as usual, was rigid, but the twist of her head was violent. And something else now, meanness of spirit. This was not the couple I knew last year. They'd been the charmed couple. Zelda and Scott on the Riviera. Dancing the night away at the Farmington Country Club. The cat's meow couple.

She wasn't always that way. When we dated, back before Peter, she was often difficult, but fun. A warm, lovely woman who craved attention. Yes, I found her crispness annoying some of the time, as well as her blatant envy of others, but she made up for it with surprisingly tender moments, witty chatter, irreverent, spirited, and lots of ribald laughter. At times she got lost in doomed silence, heavy as lead, a faraway look clouding her eyes. She'd had breakdowns as an adolescent, she confided one night, bouts of dreadful panic mimicking a cruel mother given to fits of madness. She'd joke about it.

“They said I wasn't all there. I'm missing a piece.”

So I always thought of her that way—a puzzle begging to be completed.