Rides a Stranger (5 page)

“I won’t argue with you there,” Mom said. “Ordinarily I have to beg you to visit. If you want to stay another day, be my guest. Did you go through any of those boxes?”

“I … well, I just glanced in the tops of them,” I said.

“And?” She looked at me over the top of her glasses. “Any deep dark secrets contained within? Was you father a spy as well as an author? Did he cure cancer or fly to the moon?”

I hesitated. I didn’t know what I was supposed to tell her. I wanted to share the truth—Dad had a girlfriend!—but she might already know that. And, if she didn’t, what good did it do to dredge up anything from the past, especially just a few days after Dad’s death? I wasn’t even certain the thing I was thinking about was worth exploring—the book allegedly written by my father. Maybe I really just needed to go back home and get on with my life, such as it was. But Detective Hyland didn’t want to let me.

“It looked like a lot of old stuff to me,” I said. “Nothing too special.”

“I figured as much.”

“But don’t throw any of it away,” I said.

She perked up again. “Why? If it’s junk, I can toss it.”

“No,” I said. “Maybe I’m just being sentimental, but I can take it all with me.”

“Suit yourself,” she said, returning to her puzzle.

“And,” I said. “Those books you said you got rid of?”

“What books?”

“The books you took away before Dad died?”

“What about them?”

Her voice was as flat and gray as pavement.

“Where did you take those?” I asked. “The library book sale?”

“Goodwill,” she said. “Nobody but Goodwill would resell them.”

I nodded.

Goodwill.

I waited a long time at the police station. I assumed Detective Hyland would be eager to see me, especially since he had invited me. While I waited, I searched the Internet using my phone. I tried to find a copy of
Rides a Stranger
by Herbert Henry. A few were for sale, but none were listed for less than one thousand dollars. One thousand dollars for a pulpy western paperback published forty years earlier. On several message boards devoted to book collecting, buyers had placed the book on their most desired list, with one calling it “the white whale of vintage paperback collecting.”

I wondered what Dad would have made of all of it—if he had written the book. And I wondered about those books Mom had hauled off to Goodwill. Were there copies of
Rides a Stranger
in there somewhere? Is that why Dad insisted she stop? Is that why he whispered that one word into my ear just a few weeks before he died?

Good will.
Was he wishing something for me? Or Mom? Or did he mean
Goodwill
?

After keeping me waiting for an hour, Detective Hyland finally appeared. He looked to be wearing the same clothes as the night before, the tie loosened and a little askew.

“Mr. Kurtwood,” he said. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Something came up, something related to Lou Caledonia’s case. It’s had me tied up all night and most of the morning.”

“I understand,” I said, standing up. “Do you need me to come back another time?”

“No, no,” he said. “In fact, why don’t you come back? You may be interested to hear some of this.”

As we walked to the cubicle where he worked, I asked if the development in the Caledonia case had something to do with what he wanted to tell me that morning.

“As a matter of fact, it does,” he said. We settled into chairs at his neat and orderly desk. There were no papers cluttering the surface. Just a computer, an autographed baseball encased in glass, and a cellphone that vibrated every few minutes.

“Like I said, I didn’t want to discuss this in front of your mother because I was afraid it might be a little awkward.”

“Probably no more awkward than surprising her with the news that her husband was secretly an author.”

“I’m not so sure,” Hyland said. “You see, I contacted a book dealer online, someone who had a copy of your father’s book … well,
Rides a Stranger
, for sale. I was looking for any information that might help us with the case.”

“Of course.”

“It turns out the book in question has a dedication.”

I sat straighter in my chair. “Really?”

“Indeed. The book is dedicated to M.A. That’s all it says. ‘For M.A. with love.’ Do you know what that might mean?”

“My mother’s name is Elaine. My grandmother, my maternal grandmother, was named Nancy. My dad didn’t have any sisters.”

“It sounds like a woman, right? ‘With love.’ Men don’t say with love to other men, even our fathers. Do we?”

I had to agree. I only told my father I loved him when he was dying. He rarely said it to me after my childhood. That didn’t bother me. It really didn’t. That was just how men are.

“Well, it seems like we caught a little bit of a break. We went through Mr. Caledonia’s possessions in his office. His calendar, address book, computer. It wasn’t an easy job. I suppose he’s like most collectors of arcana—a little bit disorganized, a little bit of a pack-rat. But it turns out he’s been carrying on quite a correspondence with a woman named Mary Ann Compton. Does that name ring a bell?”

“It doesn’t.”

“But you can see the initials, right?” Hyland asked, obviously pleased with himself.

“It seems pretty clear. M.A. Mary Ann.”

“But you’re not familiar with her?” Hyland asked.

“Not that I know of. Does she have something to do with my father? Or this book?”

“This is the part I didn’t want to bring up in front of your mother,” he said. “You see, these events having to do with Lou Caledonia, they don’t really have any bearing on you. Not directly. Your father died of natural causes, of course. Mr. Caledonia’s murder was only tangentially related to your father’s life. If your father even wrote that book at all.”

“If.”

“But I think it’s pretty safe to say now that he did write
Rides a Stranger.
Very safe indeed.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“Because he dedicated the book to Mary Ann Compton. Back then, when your father wrote the book, she was known as Mary Ann Gates. She was dating your father when he wrote and published the book. And she’s been trying to get her hands on a copy of the book ever since then. She wanted Mr. Caledonia to grant her access to your father, which he wouldn’t do. She killed Mr. Caledonia when he refused her once and for all.”

“Killed him?” I said. I felt a little shaky. “Over a book?”

“Not just any book,” Hyland said. “Your father’s only published novel. Dedicated to her.”

“How are you so certain of all of this?” I asked.

Hyland smiled. “Because we have Mary Ann Compton in custody. We brought her in last night, and she confessed to the murder of Lou Caledonia.”

Detective Hyland told me at least five times how irregular it was. He muttered under his breath that if anyone found out—anyone at all—he might end up in a great deal of trouble. But as he walked me back to a small interview room, the room where I would be able to have just a few minutes alone with Mary Ann Compton, he admitted that my seeing her probably wouldn’t do anybody any harm.

“She confessed,” he said, his hand pulling open the door to the small room. “And, besides, I have a soft spot for this whole case. Or, more accurately, your involvement in it.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“My old man liked to read. Mickey Spillane. Donald Hamilton. Richard Prather. I sometimes wonder if I became a detective because of the books he always read.”

“You never know,” I said.

“I think I ought to write a book someday,” Hyland said. “You know, about all the cases I’ve worked, all the crazy things and people I’ve seen. I’ve even tried a few times. It’s not as easy as it looks, writing a book.”

“No, it’s not.”

“She’ll be here in a minute,” he said, holding the door for me. “And you can only have a few. Make it quick.”

“Thanks,” I said.

The room held a small wooden table and a few chairs. The table looked like it had been to hell and back. The floor was dirty and stained—coffee, candy wrappers, grime. I took a seat, the chair rickety and squeaky beneath me.

I thought about the woman I was going to meet. She was my father’s ex-lover. No big deal. People dated others before they got married. But this woman meant so much to my dad he dedicated a book to her, a book he published the year I was born. Wasn’t he dating Mom at that time? Wouldn’t they have been practically engaged by then?

I ran my thumbnail through one of the deep grooves scarred in the top of the table. Maybe Dad didn’t write the book at all. Maybe the whole thing was a misunderstanding. After all, no one had completely convinced me that the old man had really written the book. An eccentric used book dealer and a jilted lover pointed their fingers at my dad. Those of us who lived with the man, who knew him better than anyone, didn’t think it was possible.

Who knew best?

The door opened, and I got my first look at Mary Ann Compton. Detective Hyland led her in. She didn’t wear handcuffs or a prison jumpsuit, but she looked tired. She was an attractive woman, slender and trim despite being in her sixties. Her auburn hair showed a few streaks of gray. She wore no make-up, but the lines on her face gave her character, like someone who had spent a lot of time in the outdoors, soaking up the sun and the wind.

“Five minutes,” Hyland said and left us alone.

I stood up. The woman—Mary Ann—took me in from head to toe.

I held out my hand. “I’m—”

“I know who you are,” she said. “You look just like him.”

Her voice was warm, but not effusive. She offered me a weak smile and came into the room and sat at the table. I sat again and rested my elbows on the tabletop.

She said, “We don’t have much time, so you might as well ask what you want to ask. I’m sure you have a lot of questions.”

“I do.”

“Then you better go for it,” she said. “I doubt we’ll be seeing each other again.”

“But we have seen each other before, right? At the cemetery.”

“Yes, I was there,” she said. She looked down and picked at a piece of loose skin around one of her fingernails. “I got as close as I dared.”

“So you and Dad … my dad … you were a couple.”

“We were meant to be,” she said. “He was the one, and we belonged together. He was the great love of my life.”

The words sounded so strange. Who talked that way about my father? Not my mother, that was for certain. It was hard to imagine anyone thinking that about him, but I believed this woman when she said it. Her words carried such conviction.

I was aware of the press of time. I didn’t hesitate.

“So, why weren’t the two of you together?” I asked. “If you loved each other so much?”

“I suspect you know the answer to that,” she said, looking up at me.

I thought about the dedication again, the publication date of the book.

“How did that happen?” I asked. “How did my mother get pregnant if you and Dad were together?”

“We weren’t together at the time,” she said. “We had a little bit of an on and off relationship. We were off for a while when he met your mother. He was with her when he found out two things that changed his life. One, his novel was going to be published. Two, he was going to be a father. Both things meant a lot to him, of course, but he certainly cared more about being a father than about that book. In the end, that’s how he felt.”

“And you know that because …”

“Because I got the book dedication,” she said. “And you and your mom got him. I can’t really blame him, of course. A child is a big deal. And he didn’t want you to grow up without a father. It was the right thing all around. But …”

“But he could have kept writing even after I was born,” I said. “Lots of writers have families and day jobs, and they still write. Why did he stop?”

It took her a moment to answer. Then she said, “We weren’t together when the publishing deal went south. You know about that, right?”

I nodded.

“But we still talked from time to time. He was devastated when that happened. We didn’t talk about it much, but I could tell. I think he just took it as a sign. It offered him a clean break with the past. With the time and effort he would have to put into writing … and with me.”

“Jesus.” I slumped back in my chair. “I can’t imagine the disappointment he must have felt over the book. To have tried for that and then have the book just disappear, to never even hold it in his hands.”

“He did hold it in his hands,” Mary Ann said.

“He did?” I asked.

“Your dad received all of his author copies,” she said. “He had at least one whole box, maybe twenty or thirty copies. That’s what Lou Caledonia was trying to get his hands on. And that’s how all of this ended up happening.”

“You mean Lou Caledonia’s death, right?” I asked.

She nodded. “He found out your father wrote that book. For years, no one knew who the author was. Everyone knew the book was rare, and no one knew what happened to the author. Some people assumed it was a pseudonym of a well-known author. Some people thought maybe an editor wrote the novel and used a different name.”