The Baby Blue Rip-Off (11 page)

“Sure.”

We walked over to a clump of trees. Edward, in a tentlike gray suit, was standing alone by the graveside. Only one or two people had stopped to speak a word of consolation to him; the others were evidently bitter about what they considered to be his hasty and thoughtless farewell to his mother. Now he was staring at us, his sister and me, clenching and unclenching his fists, obviously wishing he could hear our conversation, and also obviously resenting that conversation.

Ann Jonsen Bloom said, “Forgive my brother. He’s the product of too much pampering... the self-centered baby of our family. One of these moments he’ll realize he’s lost the only person in the world who cared about him, and it’ll hurt him.
Right now all that is on his mind is the money he’s lost because of the robbery.”

She paused and gave me a chance to say something, but I had nothing to say. She said, “Edward’s prime concern is money. He’s had dreams for years of Mother’s hidden fortune falling into his hands, and with some justification; he knew that he was the sole heir of her will.”

“Why is that?”

“I’m left out of it at my own request, actually, because I knew Mother wanted to leave the bulk of her estate to Edward. You see, Mr. Mallory, I am married to a very wealthy man, and mother wanted to see that her money and valuables went to the one of her children who needed it most, and all I asked Mother for, when she was writing her will some years ago, was an oil portrait of her that was painted when she was in her twenties. And she gave that to me, then, on the spot.”

“What about all those beautiful antiques of your mother’s?”

“I have no interest in them, no use for them, no room for them. We live in a two-hundred-year-old house filled with the relics of my husband’s family... the possessions of several generations of wealth... and I’ve come to detest the sight of an antique. We spend our happiest time, my family, in a relatively simple summer cottage in the Ozarks. Possessions are a bother. The only thing of my mother’s I want to keep is her memory. I want to hold the memory of her close to me for the rest of my life. Edward can have the rest. The money. The things.”

“If they’re found.”

“If they’re found,” she nodded. “I’m... I’m so embarrassed by this poor excuse for a service. I called Edward last night, and he said he’d made the arrangements, and when I got here this
morning—flew in from Philadelphia; that’s where we live, where my husband and my two boys and I live—when I got here this morning, this shabby little graveside affair is all Edward had arranged. He was... excuse me for being frank, but... he was just too damn cheap to arrange anything better.”

“Well,” I said, “it won’t matter to your mother. The funeral racket is pretty lousy anyway. I don’t blame anybody for resisting that stupid an expense.”

She said, “Thanks for trying to make me feel better, but it won’t do any good. I was raised traditionally, raised to believe in ceremony and respect, and so was Edward. Mother would have wanted a nice service, a church service. She even had a program written out for the service as she wanted it: the songs she wanted sung, a eulogy for old Clancy Rogers to read, the retired Methodist minister who married Sam and me....” Something caught in her throat; her face reddened. She dug into her purse, found a Kleenex, dabbed her eyes, and blew her nose.

“I... I want to thank you for being nice to Mother. She wrote about you in her last letter. About what a nice young man you were, and how she enjoyed talking to you. And... and let me say that I think it was very sweet of you to come today.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s a lot. You care more about her death than that fat, spoiled son of hers.” Her face reddened again, this time with rage. “I... I want to apologize for what... what Edward did yesterday. He told me about it—I don’t know what the
real
story is; probably even more embarrassing than the one Edward told me. He told me he confronted you with this idea of his that you... stole....” She stopped, let out a feeble smile, and shook her head.

“Listen,” I said, “it’s okay. He’s bound to be upset.”

“Upset! He’s a damn fool. Excuse my frankness. I talked to Sheriff Brennan about you, and he told me how utterly ridiculous Edward’s suspicions are, and he told me how extremely hurt you were by my mother’s death.” She managed another, less feeble smile. “And not just the physical injury those toughs gave you—not just the physical abuse, and the abuse my brother gave you yesterday. But that you were moved by her death. That you cared. Thank you for that, Mr. Mallory. And I’ll do my best to see my brother doesn’t interfere with your life again.”

I smiled back at her. “You know something, Mrs. Bloom?”

“What?”

“You remind me of your mother. And that’s the nicest compliment I can think of to pay you.”

Her eyes clouded up, but she was still smiling. Quickly, she kissed my cheek, then turned and walked over and joined her brother.

I headed back to the grassy parking area inside the cemetery gate, trying not to trip over too many of the stone reminders of the people underfoot. Only one person of those who had attended the service was still around: Sheriff Brennan. He had stood directly across the grave from me during the would-be preacher’s slipshod hocus-pocus, and now he was leaning against his official car (or “unit,” as we ex-cops call it), and he seemed to be waiting to talk to me.

“Howdy, Brennan.”

“Mallory,” he nodded.

“What were you doing here today?”

“Same thing as you.”

“Oh?”

“Watching faces. Checking reactions out.”

I grinned. “Come up with any conclusions?”

“Nope. An opinion, though.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Edward Jonsen is a horse’s ass.”

“Agreed. But his sister is a fine lady.”

“Agreed. A fine lady. Spoke to her this morning.”

“So I gathered. Sounds like you even said some nice things about me. What’s the matter, Brennan? You slipping?”

“Maybe. Just pay attention to what I have to say next.”

“Which is?”

“Nothing you haven’t heard before. Just that I don’t want you nosing into this.”

“I haven’t been.” And that was true, really. Hadn’t done anything much yet. Oh, I’d been beat up twice and threatened with guns and knives. But nothing active.

“What were you doing here, then, Mallory?”

“We already went over that.”

“That’s right. And you admitted you were here to study the people, see their reactions, which means you’re nosing around.”

“Did I admit that?”

“I believe so.”

“I don’t remember admitting that. Brennan?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you cracked the case yet?”

“Sure. That’s why I’m standing here telling you to lay off it.”

“Well what
have
you come up with?”

“The only thing I got to tell you is this: stay home like a good boy. Okay?”

“Oh, sure. So what have you come up with so far?”

Brennan sighed. “Not much, to be truthful. I thought we had something; we tied three of the break-ins to a travel agency.
I mean, three of the families were on vacation when their homes were broke into, and all three had the same travel agency.”

“But then Port City only
has
one travel agency.”

“Right. So I end up with a handful of air. If the travel agency is the source of their information, why would it turn up only three times?”

“Maybe they’ve got more than one source.”

“Maybe. If they were pros, I’d think so. But these people are amateurs—look at that poor old lady dying. An accident. The kind a pro would avoid.” He grunted. “Like I said, any time you want to swap theories, look me up. But otherwise, keep your damn nose out. Understood?”

“Understood.”

He glanced out across the cemetery toward where Mrs. Jonsen was resting. His son John was buried here, too. “Hell of a thing,” he said. His jaw got firm, and he climbed in his car and pulled away.

I stood and thought for five minutes or so, then did the same.

After the nine-thirty service for Mrs. Jonsen, I headed straight back to Debbie’s and got there by ten-thirty for a late breakfast. Debbie hadn’t wanted me to leave, still fearing what Pat might pull, and on my return I found that she had surrounded herself with company (or protection); daughter Cindy was back from her overnight stay with Debbie’s mother, and a friend of Debbie’s was there, too: a busty frosted blonde of about thirty in a sheer white blouse and dark blue ski pants. She was a good-looking woman, but wore rather severe makeup that gave her a hard look. Teeth stained from tobacco further took the edge off her mostly attractive appearance. Her name was Sarah Petersen, and she and her husband “ran a business.” She didn’t have much to say to me beyond that.

Something was in the air, and I couldn’t tell what. Tension of some sort. Sarah had a sour expression, and even the cute Cindy, looking like Debbie must’ve at eleven, seemed ill at ease. I began to sense I’d come in on the middle of something. An argument, probably.

Everybody else had already eaten their breakfast, but Debbie had kept some rolls warming in the oven for me and proceeded to scramble a couple eggs for me while I sat at the table and made a few vain attempts to engage Sarah in conversation. She wasn’t buying. Like Debbie, Sarah wasn’t exactly a chatterbox, but it
was more than that, and I began to feel certain both women were mutually ticked off. As Debbie handed me the plate of scrambled eggs and breakfast fast rolls, Sarah rose suddenly and stalked out of the apartment.

“What’s with her?” I asked Debbie.

“Cindy,” Debbie said, “go to the living room, will you? Go in the living room and read your book.”

“Can I watch TV instead, Mommy?” The little girl’s eyes were as blue and saucerlike as her mother’s. She was a tiny thing and looked good in the lacy pink little dress she was wearing.

“Of course you can watch TV, honey. Go on now. Scoot.”

The child didn’t back-talk her mother. She got up from the table like a little lady, giving me a quick, big grin that told me she was eager to get acquainted. The tension of the scene when I’d arrived had evidently stifled the child’s natural curiosity about this stranger her mother had introduced as “Mr. Mallory, a friend,” and she would have plenty of questions for me later. She bounced out.

“Sweet-looking little kid,” I said.

“Yes, she is,” Debbie said, coming out of her uneasy mood with a smile of pride. “Thank God Pat hasn’t taken to beating
her.
”

“Hey, listen, I repeat: what’s with that Petersen woman?”

“We were in the midst of an argument when you came in, or did you gather that?”

“I gathered. What caused the tiff?”

“Well, it’s my fault, really. I shouldn’t have called her to come over, should’ve had better sense. She and her husband are... were?... good friends of Pat and me, and I thought Sarah would stand behind me in this unpleasant situation. Up till now she’s seemed sympathetic, but come to think of it, ever since
the trouble started, she’s encouraged me to try to patch things up with Pat.”

“Meaning she wasn’t happy to hear you had an overnight guest last night.”

“She sure wasn’t. And evidently Pat went over there last night, after he’d sobered up—or healed up, or whatever—and told them quite a different story. About how my new boyfriend attacked him.”

I shook my head, smiling humorlessly. “She
was
a bad choice to have come over.”

“Couldn’t have been worse. Here I was asking her for protection because I didn’t feel secure here alone, didn’t know what Pat would do after last night, and she comes over and gives me a sermon about what a bad wife I am. I mean—”

“Yeah. I know what you mean. What about Cindy?”

“She was in reading her book and didn’t hear any of it, or much of it anyway, thank God. When Cindy came in for breakfast, just a few minutes before you showed up, the argument continued, but in an understated way that I don’t think Cindy could pick up on.”

“I don’t know. Kids are pretty hip. Eleven years old isn’t babe-in-arms, you know.”

She nodded. “Yes, Cindy realizes things are pretty rocky with her father and me; I can’t hope to hide that from her. But I
can
protect her from some of it. From stupid, catty bitches like Sarah, I can protect her.”

“And from knowing her mommy’s shacking up with another guy.”

“That, too.” She let me see that tiny grin of hers, the one I fell in love with at thirteen. “Has it gone that far? Are we ‘shacked up’ now?”

I shrugged. “We’ll see. We’ll see what develops. We’ll see what you decide to do about Pat.”

“You mean... you think I ought to be talking to a lawyer. Think I ought to file the papers.”

“It’s your marriage. I’m glad to help you and delighted to... enjoy your company, let’s say. But it’s your marriage, your child, your life, your decision.”

“You’re right, Mal. But I’m not sure if... if I’m strong enough. In some ways I’m as much of a little girl as my daughter in there.”

“Well, there’s no time limit on it.”

“On what?”

“Growing up.”

She thought about that, started to say something, then decided against it. She rose and got me some coffee.

After a third cup (she made great coffee, that woman; her years with Pat had honed her kitchen abilities to a fine edge), I got up from the table, kissed her cheek in thanks, and said, “Can I use your phone?”

“Sure.”

“You mind if I revert to chauvinist and let you do the dishes by yourself this time?”

“Not at all. I’m used to it. Go ahead, make your call.”

I went to the phone on the wall and looked up George Price’s number in the book.

George Price was a black guy who lived a few blocks from me on East Hill. A huge man who was beefy but not fat, George was around fifty years old but could have passed for thirty-five, easy. His face was broad, dominated by a big, disarming, dazzling white grin that had (added to some hard work and perseverance) made George many a dollar over the
years. George owned the whole block he lived on and had built (with the help of various of his six sons) his own home and rebuilt most of the other houses on that block. He was, as he put it, “a blackjack of all trades” and liked to refer to himself as “the poor man.” How many poor men do you know that own their whole block?