Shots in the Dark (21 page)

Morning came all too soon. Duncan shook me awake around five, and I reluctantly let go of the idyllic dreamworld of my slumber.

“I need to leave while it's still dark,” Duncan whispered in my ear. His breath was warm, his voice soothing, and the combination of the two made me taste sweet milk chocolate.

When I rolled over and blinked the sleep from my eyes, I was surprised to see that he was already dressed. He sat down on the bed beside me and brushed my hair back off my face. Then he kissed me.

“I wish I didn't have to go,” he said.

“So do I.” I threw back the covers, donned my robe, and then grabbed my crutches. I followed him out to the main area of the apartment, and from there down the stairs, a journey made in silence . . . if you didn't count the thumping of my crutches.

When we reached the bar's back hallway, he turned to me and said, “Are you still planning on going to the cemetery today?”

I nodded. “Mal is going with me.”

“Good. I think,” he said with a slightly troubled expression. “Be careful and call me if you need anything, okay?”

“I will.”

He kissed me again, a little longer this time, and had the kiss lasted a second or two more, I don't think he would have made his escape in the dark. Not wanting him to see the disappointment on my face, I turned away and hobbled down the hall to my office, entered it, and disabled the back alley door alarm. I then headed back to the hallway, wondering if he would linger there until I returned for one last good-bye. But by the time I reached the hall, I could see the door closing and knew he was gone. My disappointment mounting, I went back into the office and turned the alarm back on.

I'd planned to return to bed, but by the time I hobbled back upstairs to my apartment, I knew that wasn't going to work. I felt wide awake and buzzed, so I made my way to the kitchen and fixed a pot of coffee. Then I dragged out my laptop, launched the browser, and read everything I could find about Forest Home Cemetery. It was a fascinating place, rich with Milwaukee history, and the pictures of the grounds I saw online depicted a serene and lovely place landscaped with magnificent old trees, a small lake, and a picturesque stone bridge. Of course, most of that would be barren, gone, or frozen for my visit today, since it was the dead of winter, and I felt a tug of disappointment. I spent some time reading up on the green burial process and the Prairie Rest section of the cemetery, which housed those who chose that form of interment. Though the topic was admittedly a bit morbid, I found the idea of our bodies being returned to the earth kind of refreshing and nice. A childhood ditty played in my head a few times—
the worms crawl in, the worms crawl out, the worms play pinochle on your snout
—and rather than being disturbed by it, I found it oddly humorous.

I became so absorbed in my research that the time passed by with startling speed. Before I knew it, it was time to shower, dress, and head downstairs to start prepping for my eleven o'clock opening. I abandoned the computer and headed for the shower after taping a plastic garbage bag over my cast. When I was done showering, I spent a good ten minutes debating what to wear, trying to decide what would be appropriate cemetery visitation garb and wondering if it really mattered. In the end I opted for black jeans, a turquoise sweater, and one sensible low-rider black boot. Over my casted foot I put on two pairs of my father's heavy black wool socks. After a quick fix to my hair, I headed downstairs just before ten thirty.

Debra and my daytime bartender, Pete, were already at the bar, setting things up, and my daytime cook, Jon, was in the kitchen. I crutched my way to the customer side of the bar, sidled onto a stool, and told Debra to pass me over some fruit, a cutting board, and a knife so I could help her with prepping the garnishments. She did so, and I went to work while she made coffee and helped Pete stock behind the bar.

The chopping duty was a monotonous task but one I typically enjoyed, because the mind-numbing tedium lessened my synesthetic reactions. I was intimately familiar with the sounds and sensations touched off by the citrus smell of the limes, lemons, and oranges, and I could easily suppress them. I'd been chopping this stuff on a daily basis for so many years that my hands functioned robotically, performing the necessary movements in a rote manner that was blissfully mindless.

With my mind thereby freed from outside distractions, I went back to pondering my visit to the cemetery. I was glad Mal was coming with me, but I also worried that having someone accompany me might, at some point, make the letter writer mad, assuming I was being watched. I'd dragged Mal along on my previous excursions, and since no mention of his presence had been made in the letters, I assumed that it was either considered okay or was not known by whoever was sending them. I knew it was risky to keep bringing Mal along, but I felt so much safer with him at my side, and I was willing to push the envelope a little more. Even as the envelope metaphor danced through my mind, I chuckled at how appropriate it was. I was so deep into my thoughts, it took me a few seconds to realize that Debra was talking to me.

“Mack? Are you in there?”

“Sorry,” I said, looking at Debra with an apologetic smile. “My mind was wandering. What did you say?”

She made a pointed glance at her watch. “It's two minutes after eleven. Do you want me to unlock the front door?”

I blinked and glanced at the digital clock on the back wall of the bar and saw she was right. In front of me was a pile of cut-up fruit that would probably last through today and all of tomorrow. “I'll unlock it,” I said.

I grabbed a nearby bar towel and wiped my hands the best I could; then I grabbed my crutches and headed for the door. When I got there, I saw Joe and Frank Signoriello coming up the walk—their arrival was never more than five minutes past my opening time—quickly threw the locks, and opened the door.

A frigid blast of cold morning air rushed in, and Joe and Frank tottered in behind it. Neither of them moved all that fast these days. They were fit men for their age, but they were both in their seventies, and the cold weather, combined with the ravages of Father Time, had stiffened their joints.

“Good morning, Mack,” Joe said as the men shuffled their way to a table. Eventually, they would head upstairs to the Capone Club room, but for now they were content to rest from the several-block walk they'd already taken from their downtown apartment. “Perfect day for a couple of Irish coffees, I think. What do you say, Frank?”

“Sounds good to me. And I think we should have a couple of burgers to go with it.”

“Coming right up,” Debra said from behind the bar.

A moment later Cora came in, carrying her laptop. She greeted us all with a cheerful “Good morning!” and then headed for the Signoriello brothers' table.

“Your usual, Cora?” Debra asked.

“Yes, please. And I'll have one of Mack's famous BLTs, too, while I'm at it.”

I settled into the fourth chair at the table and smiled at the trio. These three people were the closest thing I had to family these days. “What are you guys planning for today?”

Cora said, “I've been doing some searching on the Internet for Melanie Smithson, Tiffany's BFF. I've perused her social media and a few other sites and didn't come up with much.”

She paused as Debra delivered the drinks and then headed into the kitchen. After a glance at Pete, to make sure he wasn't eavesdropping on our conversation, Cora lowered her voice and leaned into the table. “I've also been searching to see if I can find any other commonalities among the recipients of the letter writer's packages. And I got nothing. They live in different neighborhoods, aren't from the same places, don't shop at the same stores or bank at the same banks . . . nothing. The only thing they all share in common is the university connection. I'm thinking that has to be it.”

The Signoriello brothers weren't up to speed on this aspect of the investigation, so Cora and I quickly filled them in on Cora's theory, the contents of the latest letter, and my planned trip to Forest Home Cemetery later today.

When we were done, Frank said, “If that's the only thing they have in common, it makes sense to look into it. It might not lead to anything, but it would be dumb not to check it out.”

“I agree,” I said. “Keep looking, Cora, particularly at the financial office at the school. See if you can find any names that are familiar to us.”

The front door opened, and Tad came in, bringing a blast of cold air and a few flakes of snow with him.

Frank shivered. “Got that fireplace upstairs fired up, Mack?” he asked.

“Not yet,” I said, “but you guys can do it. Why don't you head up there, and I'll have Debra bring your food up when it's done.”

Tad walked over to us, did the greeting thing, and asked if anyone was heading upstairs.

“We were just about to go there,” Cora said, standing and grabbing her laptop with one hand and her glass of chardonnay with the other.

The brothers got up, too, and followed Cora. Tad shucked his coat off and started to head upstairs with them, but I stopped him.

“Tad, I wonder if you might be able to help us out with something on this Middleton case.”

“What?”

“Any chance you have financial info on the Gallagher family?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

This made me happy, but I knew Tad was a conscientious businessman, and revealing private information about his clients was something he wouldn't do easily, if at all.

Hoping to appease his professional conscience, I said, “I don't need you to reveal any numbers to me, but I wonder if you might be able to look over things and let me know if you find any unusual transactions that occurred during the time that Tiffany and Ben were married, particularly right around the time of her death. I'm interested in Tiffany's money, of course, but also Colin Gallagher's. I'm mainly looking for any large chunks of money that might have been spent on some unknown cause. And I'd also like to know if Colin Gallagher had any control over Tiffany's purse strings.”

Not surprisingly, Tad frowned at my request. “I can't betray my clients' trust by revealing private and personal information.”

“I understand, and you don't need to give me specifics. Just let me know if you find any unusual transactions, and let me know the date they occurred and any other details you're comfortable revealing. Amounts would be helpful, but if you're not comfortable revealing that information, that's fine.”

“Can you give me an idea of what specifically you're looking for?”

“Any monies that might have been a payment to a contract killer or used for an illegal gun purchase.”

Tad considered what I'd said, his face a mask of consternation. “I'll take a look this afternoon, when I return to the office,” he said finally. “If I find any unusual cash withdrawals, all I'll be able to give you is a date and an amount, and I'll give you that only if you promise not to reveal where the information came from.”

“Not a problem.”

His cell phone rang then, and when he glanced at it, he scowled. “It's Suzanne,” he said with an impatient sigh. “She's really been on my case lately about all the time I'm spending in the office. I can only imagine how angry she'd be if she knew that half the time she thinks I'm in the office, I'm really here.” He turned and walked off, answering the call with a cheery “Yes, dear. What do you need?”

The front door opened again, letting more of Old Man Winter inside, and I saw it was Mal. He walked over and hugged me, greeting me with a cheery “Good morning,”

Debra came out, carrying the food orders for the group upstairs, and I told her and Pete that Mal and I were heading out for a while. “I should be back in an hour or two,” I told them.

To their credit, they didn't ask where we were going, though I could tell from the look on Debra's face that she was curious.

After I donned my coat—I ended up wearing the same one I'd worn the night before on my excursion to the impound lot and made a mental note to get my own coat back—Mal and I headed out to go clue hunting in a cemetery.

It was bitterly cold outside, and the air stung my exposed face. When we got to Mal's car, he started it up and turned the defroster on full blast. The windows were covered in a sheet of ice, but rather than scrape them, we sat in the car and let the warm air do its work.

“When we get there, let's stop in the office and ask about touring the grounds,” I said as we huddled in the cold, waiting for the heat to warm us. “I know from their Web site that they welcome people who want to tour the grounds, but given the weather, we should probably come up with a reason for doing it. This isn't the time of year when many people visit the place for its aesthetic value. So I'm thinking I should ask about graves belonging to anyone with the last name Green. I can say I'm working on a family tree project or something like that. With any luck, that might be all we have to do to get a package handed over.”

“And if that doesn't work?” Mal asked.

“Then we search. I think we should start with this Prairie Rest section, where the green burials are done. That's where the asters grow during the warmer weather.”

My mention of the aster got me thinking. “You know, maybe we should have Cora look into the weeping willow leaf and the aster, which were included with the letter. It's wintertime. Where would someone find something like that during this time of the year?”

“Good question,” Mal said, frowning thoughtfully.

I took out my cell phone, called Cora, and told her what we were thinking. When I was done, I disconnected the call and said to Mal, “Cora said asters are a common flower used by most florist shops, so that doesn't narrow things down much. She thought the leaf might be easier to follow up on, but it's still a long shot.”

Mal nodded, his face still furrowed in thought. “What if our efforts today don't produce anything?”

I gave him a disheartened look. “Let's hope that doesn't happen. Because if it does, I don't know where to go next, and that means someone might die.”

The windows had finally cleared enough to drive, and the interior climate was starting to feel survivable, so Mal pulled out and drove toward the cemetery, our last, morbid line of conversation hanging between us with a deadly, formidable weight. The roads were slick with patchy ice, and the traffic was crawling. Mal drove with great care and caution, my recent accident uppermost in both of our minds. When we arrived at the entrance to the cemetery, a shiver shook me. I wondered if it was the weather, the setting, or some combination of the two that had triggered it.

The transition from a bustling city street to a bucolic landscape was astonishing. Mal pulled into the parking area near the office, and we headed inside under an orange awning. The building had amazing architectural details: stained-glass windows, wide varnished moldings, thick beams in the coffered ceiling, and polished hardwood floors. The first room we entered had samples of headstones off to one side and an empty counter straight ahead. There was another room to our right, and there we saw a woman, who looked to be in her late forties, sitting behind a desk. She smiled at us as we approached—a smile that was part greeting and part empathetic understanding. I supposed that until she knew why we were there, she needed this mixed message of an expression. A pin on her blouse told us her name was Emma Cheevers.

“How may I be of service to you fine folks today?” she asked.

“We'd like to explore the grounds,” I said.

“I see,” she said, her smile faltering a little. “Of course, this isn't the best time of year to see our grounds, but we still have many things I think you'll find interesting.” She slid a brochure across the counter, and I took it. “Right here, next to the office, is the Halls of History,” she said, pointing off to the right. “It's an indoor mausoleum that features a historical community education center on the lower level, where you can learn about the history of Milwaukee and how the cemetery ties into it. Many of Milwaukee's most famous people are buried here, including politicians, beer barons, like Frederick Pabst and Joseph Schlitz, newspaper publishers and editors, and many of old Milwaukee's social elite.

“Across the road from the Halls of History is the Landmark Chapel, an amazing Gothic structure built using dark red sandstone from Lake Superior. Inside you'll find a peaceful environment that's ideal for quiet meditation, with leaded stained-glass windows and two large conservatories with decades-old tropical foliage.”

I had the feeling Emma's rote spiel was going to continue nonstop if I didn't do something, so I jumped in and said, “I'm wondering if you have anyone buried here with the last name of Green? I'm doing one of those family tree things, and I'm looking for some lost relatives.”

This request seemed to stymie her for a moment, but she recovered quickly after muttering, “Oh,” and then “Um . . . ,” and then “How nice.” She shifted her focus from me to a computer and started tapping at the keys. “Oh, my,” she said, giving me an apologetic look. “We have lots of Greens here. Is it Green with or without an
e
on the end?”

I had no idea, but I decided to keep it simple for now. “No
e
.”

“That still leaves nearly sixty people. Can you give me some first names or dates?”

I couldn't, and there was no way we were going to visit sixty-some graves. So I tried a different tack. “I didn't realize there would be so many,” I said. “I guess I'll need to do a little more homework. In the meantime, I've heard that you have an area called Prairie Rest that features . . . um . . . eco-friendly burials.” On the heels of my inquiry about the name Green, I was hesitant to use the term
green burials
. “Can you show us where that is?”

“Certainly,” she said, and she slid a booklet across the counter. She opened it and folded out a map on the inside cover. Then she circled the area with a pen.

“Thank you,” I said, taking the map. “I don't suppose anyone left or mailed a package to you to give to someone named Mackenzie Dalton.”

The smile faltered again. “A package?” she said, looking bemused.

I could tell my question had made her wary, so I thought up a quick cover story. “I have an elderly cousin who has helped me with some of the family research, and she was supposed to mail me some documents. But I never got them. She knew I was coming here, and I just wondered if she might have mailed them here for some reason. She's a bit . . . eccentric.” I gave her a vague smile.

“I see,” Emma said, looking relieved. “No, I'm sorry, but we haven't received any packages addressed to anyone other than the people who work here.”

“Okay. Thanks anyway.”

We left and got back in the car, which thankfully had some remaining warmth, and after Mal started it up and turned up the fan, we consulted the map. Then we drove along narrow roads past snow-covered expanses filled with hundreds of grave markers, statues, and the occasional ostentatious mausoleum. We drove over a bridge that spanned a small frozen lake and eventually reached an open gate in the fence that surrounded the cemetery. Here we drove across a street and entered another section. Moments later we reached a cul-de-sac that bordered the Prairie Rest area. Mal parked the car, and we both got out and surveyed a large open field bordered on two sides by trees. About fifty feet across the field was a large wooden bench, and behind it was a collection of boulders. Negotiating the snow-covered terrain was a challenge for me, and Mal stuck close by my side. It was a good thing he did, because twice my crutches slipped on the snowy surface and I nearly fell.

When we reached the bench area, we saw that there were close to a hundred names carved into the flat surface of the two boulders in front—the names of those who were buried here. There were no other markers anywhere, and when I consulted the booklet Emma had given us, I read that the burial spots in this section could be located using GPS but were otherwise unmarked. I explained this to Mal, who was reading the names carved on one of the boulders.

“Any Greens there?” I asked him.

He shook his head.

Up a hill off to the right of the Prairie Rest area, the regular portion of the cemetery resumed. I scanned the gravestones, noting that some of them were decorated with Christmas wreaths, while others stood cold, empty, and barren. It was a sad sight either way, and I wondered about the families who had come out here to mark the graves of their loved ones, and about who was buried in the graves that had no adornments. A gust of wind came along, making me shiver, and I wished I could wrap my arms around myself in an effort to stay warm. I tried to envision the field filled with green grass and the deep blue of wild-growing asters, thinking that might warm me, but it didn't work. The bitter cold seeped through my coat and gloves, chapped my cheeks, and stung my eyes. My sock-covered foot felt like a block of ice.

I was about to suggest to Mal that we give up and head back to the warmth of the car when he grabbed my arm and pointed. I looked where he indicated and saw it: on top of the hill, way off to the left, in front of the bordering oaks and maples, stood a huge weeping willow tree. Slowly, we made our way over to it, and when we were about twenty feet away, I stopped and said to Mal, “Look.” To my right was a headstone, the closest one to the weeping willow. On it was carved the name Margaret Dunford Green, a birth date of August 21, 1993, and a death date of October 3, 2015.

“She was young when she died,” I observed. “Only twenty-two.”

Mal nodded but said nothing.

“So now what?” I asked him. “There's nothing here on her grave.”

“Let's go have a closer look at the willow tree,” he said.

I imagined the tree would look magnificent in the spring and summer. It was impressive even now, reaching at least forty feet into the air, the bare, pendulous branches hanging down like the tentacles beneath a jellyfish, swaying and dancing in the winter wind. At the center of this skeletal umbrella, the main trunk of the tree split off into five smaller trunks about five feet above the ground. This division created a platform of sorts, and something at the base of one of the subsections of trunk caught my eye. It was a tiny spark of light, the sun reflecting off of something metallic. I maneuvered closer and leaned in. There, tucked in behind that subsection of trunk, was a small metal box. It was the type often used to store cash or important documents, and for one dreadful moment, I was certain it would be locked. But it wasn't. Mal had seen it, too, and he reached up and took it down. It had a simple latch on it, and after Mal flipped it up, he opened the box. A small plain manila envelope was nestled inside. I started to take it out, but Mal stopped me.

“Most likely this envelope and box have been handled by the letter writer only, not by mail carriers or anonymous recipients like the others were,” he said.

I got his point, but I was impatient to view the contents. Plus, we both had gloves on, so our prints wouldn't be on the box or its contents, and I felt certain the letter writer had been as careful with this delivery as with the others. I doubted we'd find any prints on any of it, but I knew Mal was right. On the off chance that the letter writer had slipped up this time, we had to be careful. I didn't want to jeopardize any chance we might have of figuring out who it was.

I nodded at Mal, though I did so with a frown of frustration, and he closed the box's lid and slipped the latch back down. Then he tucked the box under his arm, and we negotiated the snowy terrain back to the car.

Again, we sat for a while, letting the vehicle warm up. After a minute or so, I said, “I wonder if that Margaret Dunford Green has any connection to the university.”

“Good question,” Mal said. “I suppose we could Google the name.”

“I have a better idea,” I said, and then I shared it with him.

As we drove back to the office, I held the box in my lap, feeling the cold of the metal seep through my clothes to the skin below. The sensation triggered a brief aura, like a frost-rimmed window, around my field of vision.

Emma Cheevers looked a little surprised to see us again, but she quickly masked it, that ambiguous smile once again stamped on her face. “Done already?” she asked us.

“It's too cold to wander around much outside,” I said, and she nodded, with an expression that suggested this should have been obvious to us from the get-go. “But I did run across a marker bordering the Prairie Rest area that I'd like more information about. It was for someone named Margaret Dunford Green. Can you tell me anything about her?”

“Let me see,” she said, going back to her computer. She tapped away, and about thirty seconds later she said, “Ah, yes. Your Ms. Green is a relatively new guest here. She was interred last October.” She paused and frowned. “A rather sad case, I'm afraid,” she said next. “Ms. Green died at the age of twenty-two, the victim of a car accident.”

“Does she have family in the area?” I didn't know if this particular grave had any significant meaning to the letter writer, but it was too much of a coincidence to ignore. I figured it was best to leave no stone unturned, both realistically and metaphorically speaking.

Emma tapped away again and a few seconds later said, “According to her obituary, she was from Colorado, and her only surviving relative was a great-aunt who lives in Florida. Her parents and a brother all predeceased her in a plane accident.”

“That's odd,” I said. “You'd think the aunt would have wanted to bury her closer to home and the other family members.”

Emma shrugged. “Perhaps the area had some special meaning to Ms. Green. It does say in her obituary that she was a recent graduate from the U of Dub here in Milwaukee.”