7 - Rogue: Ike Schwartz Mystery 7 (10 page)

Chapter Eighteen

Eden Saint Clare maintained she married Ruth’s father because she caught him on the rebound. In truth he’d run out of patience with a wife who exhibited subclinical paranoia, chronic anger issues, and a tendency to spend beyond their means. Eden, then Paula Cline and an undergraduate student, caught his eye and, as they say, one thing led to another. All of which explained the closeness in the ages of mother and daughter. The first Dr. Harris, Ruth’s father, had lately succumbed to Alzheimer’s. Once he’d crossed over the line from which no coherent responses could reemerge, he refused to recognize his wife, and when she entered his room, would slip into anxiety attacks or mild violent behavior. On the doctor’s advice, Eden stopped visiting.

Since she’d gone from adolescence to motherhood and faculty wife without the usual twenty-something pause at young adulthood, she determined she needed to correct that misstep and had reinvented herself, emerging from spa treatments, surgery, and dubious exotic therapies, as Eden Saint Clare.

Her husband had by then taken up with a fellow Alzheimer’s sufferer who bore an uncanny resemblance to his first wife, and he currently resided in a constant care facility in Oak Park, Illinois. Not coincidently, the facility happened to be close to his spinster sister. As she never cared for her sister-in-law when she was Paula and detested her as Eden, there existed little or no communication between the two—a situation which suited both of them just fine.

Eden finally accepted the sad fact the man she had loved and whose child she’d borne no longer existed. The shell that remained might resemble him in some ways, might have his voice, and bear his name, but it was no longer he. That man had packed his bags and gone to wherever people go when they aren’t dead, but aren’t alive either. The Catholic Church used to proclaim the existence of Limbo. Too bad they gave that up. It would have provided a comforting destination for so many families dealing with a need for relief from the guilt they dealt with daily because of their inability to care for their loved ones properly, as well as the uncertainty created by a real lack of closure.

Eden had grieved her loss and had moved on, she insisted. Easier said than done. These thoughts and the pain that always accompanied them were on her mind as she sat at Ruth’s bedside stroking her hand and murmuring snippets of old memories.

“You remember the time you decided to be a hippie, honey? You had that awful boyfriend who played a guitar and didn’t bathe. Your father nearly had a cow.”

It had been a huge row at the time, the first time he’d actually yelled at her. He had a position to maintain, he’d said, and as her mother she should bring the girl to her senses, he’d said. Eden smiled at the memory. Could that have been the first sign of the disease that eventually overwhelmed an otherwise extraordinary intellect? Who knew?

Ike slipped into the room.

“Speaking of having a cow, here’s Ike, who probably will if he doesn’t slow down and relax.”

“Nice to see you too, Eden.”

“Ike, I have to leave for a few days. I have to fly to Chicago. There’s been a problem with Ruth’s father.”

She lowered her voice so that Ruth could not hear. “His sister, that’s Ruth’s aunt Joan, is contesting the fact that I receive his university pension and Social Security. She claims that since she is now the primary caregiver, she should at least get the pension. She’s hired a sleazebag lawyer and I have to go to Chicago and set them straight. Also,” she dropped her voice to a whisper, “the Doc said he does not have much time left, so it’s important for the old bag to stick her paws in ASAP. I, on the other hand, need to make the arrangements for the eventual end to this sad story.”

“Sorry to hear about all that. Do you have a good attorney? I went to school with a guy who practices out there and—”

“No problem, Ike. When you are married to the Dean of a Law School, you get to know a lot of lawyers. I have whole firms at my disposal.”

“Right. Leave me an address where I can reach you if there is a change.”

She handed him a three-by-five card. “I’m way ahead of you. I’ll be here.”

Ike glanced at the card and slipped it in his pocket.

“Have to run, Honey,” Eden said, loud enough for Ruth to hear. “See you in a few. Ike will take care of you now.”

Did he see her eyelid flicker again? Was anybody in there? He cleared his throat and decided he would read to her from the book she’d started but never finished when the two of them last spent a weekend in the mountains at his A-frame. Something easy and not overly stimulating, but entertaining enough to require the engagement of her faculties, assuming there were some on line—to make her think. He opened the book to the page marked with an envelope which also had a shopping list scrawled on it. They’d made chili that night…that night. He folded it and began to read.

It had started innocently enough. A week after her sixtieth birthday, Darcie saw her cat savaged by her neighbor’s pit bull. The image seemed so real that she dashed into the back yard screaming at the dog’s owner. He, a glass of lemonade in one hand and a tattered copy of Agatha Christie’s
A Holiday for Murder
in the other, nearly fell out of his Pawley’s Island hammock at Darcie’s verbal onslaught. Cleopatra, the cat in question, watched all this with feline disinterest. Her neighbor, momentarily stunned, recovered and had some strong words for Darcie in return. Mixed in among them was the news that Jaws (the name of pit bull in question) had spent the day at the vet’s and had not yet returned. At that moment Cleopatra announced her presence by rubbing against Darcie’s legs. Abashed and thoroughly confused, she retreated to her kitchen and poured a bowl of milk for the cat.

Ike flipped the book over to glance at the cover.
Digby,
it read. He did not recognize the author. He checked the inside and saw it was a collection of short stories. He continued to read as Darcie discovered she had been visited or cursed with second sight and in the end had successfully shared some loot with a woman with whom she’d briefly shared a jail cell. The story line seemed a little thin but the O’Henry ending pretty much saved it. He thought that with the right actors and director, a decent little comedy-crime movie might be assembled along the lines of the classic Lavender Hill Mob. The cheerfulness these musings tried to force into his conscience faded, and darkness descended on his psyche again.

He did not see any more movements in her eyes. He hoped she’d enjoyed the story. He’d probably never find out. He wondered if she would ever finish the book. That thought depressed him even more. He left before she sensed his mood, if indeed she could. He didn’t know how much she picked up, if anything.

He wanted to hit something.

***

Scott Fiske, Ph. D., didn’t often feel inadequate. Oh, sometimes one of the younger faculty with a brand new degree and a research grant in his back pocket triggered an old reflex and he got that sinking feeling, but he had conquered most of that and now he was on top. He’d managed to sidestep the difficulties he’d encountered in the past, learned to compensate for the gaps in his background, and as far as anyone knew, he could stand with any of them. Scott might be glib where others were thoughtful, but at his level, glibness had its positives—just check out the majority of the country’s elected officials. He talked a good game and thereby gave the illusion of competence. If you didn’t look too closely, he was what he pretended to be. And the truth of the matter was, he really did function ably in his current position. The great irony of the academic world is that the qualifications required to rise to the top in administration are not the skills one needs to function in those positions. Scholarly research and a long list of juried publications does not make one a good administrator. Scott lacked many of academe’s more conventional trappings, but he did know how to make things happen.

He glanced in the mirror, slicked down his hair and straightened his Italian silk tie. It had cost him seventy-five dollars but Sheila said it gave him a presence, whatever that meant. She was okay, could use some grooming in the right way to have a presence—her word—herself. Content with his appearance he left his office. Sheila sat at her desk as he stepped into the outer office.

“You look nice, Scott, I mean Doctor Fiske.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Overton.” Had he looked closer, he would have noticed the unabashed look of admiration on her face. Another man would have been genuinely flattered and possibly concerned. As it was, Fiske merely accepted it as his due. He was, after all, the Acting President. He smiled, gave the knot in his tie one last tweak, and moved down the corridor. Sharp.

A wit once described Academe as the last outpost of medieval governance. In it the president assumes the role of the king and deans and chairmen/women, are the barons. The president, like the king, maintains power because he can allocate space and money. In the case of a college or university, that translates to budget approval and the dispersion of the more liquid grant overhead allowances and FTEs. The trick to running a university, a trick Ruth Harris had to learn early, was the judicious allocation of these assets, thus keeping more barons with you than against you. To do so took guile, an iron constitution, and guts.

Scott Fiske, unfortunately, possessed few of the important characteristics. That would not necessarily be fatal. After all, he was the Acting President—allowances would be made. But the fact that he was ignorant of these shortcomings meant that the barons routinely manhandled him like bullies working over a nerdy kid on the playground during recess. When Ruth returned to her office, assuming she would, she would have some serious fence mending to attend to. Very likely, given her private thoughts about her vice president, she had already planned for it.

Fiske proceeded to the administration conference room and joined the department chairpersons for the scheduled weekly policy meeting. Rarely was policy the topic of these meetings, however. Lately they had devolved into verbal pushing and shoving about whatever issue the “barons” seemed to think important. This day the topic would be messy, but Fiske felt he could handle it. How hard would it be to establish norms for Interpersonal Referencing? The term was his. He intended it to replace “political correctness,” which he believed no longer passed muster. He’d show them how to run a meeting that produced results.

He just hoped the woman with the degree from West Virginia didn’t get smart with his talk about mind control, First Amendment rights, freedom of speech, and coerced censorship. What the hell did that mean? And what was she talking about with Brave New Worlds? Fiske sort of remembered reading that book, and he’d seen the movie
1984
in sociology class twenty years ago, but so what? Everybody agreed some things were not to be said, period. He could live with that and if the hillbilly bitch from the mountains didn’t get it, well tough cookies. Time to move on.

Chapter Nineteen

Charlie lingered over his rapidly cooling carryout coffee to chat with Lee Henry. Sherleen/Charlene had the day off and in her place were two other women who, he was told, also rented chairs in Lee’s Cuttery and Style. He didn’t catch their names, which was unusual for him. He had a prodigious memory for names, places, addresses, and telephone numbers. Ike sometimes referred to him as an idiot savant. Charlie was anything but intellectually challenged and had responded by suggesting that Ike possessed an inordinate quantity of Neanderthal genes in his DNA.

When he returned to the van, Kevin handed him a message. “It’s from the director. He wants you to call and he told me to wipe those names we were so concerned about.”

“Did you?”

“Not yet, waiting to hear from you.”

“Good man.” Charlie stepped out of the van and reclosed the doors. He managed to reach the director’s unlisted number and an aide on the other end put him through.

“Garland? About those names, am I right in assuming this has something to do with Schwartz’s probe into his friend’s accident?”

“Yes, sir, it does.”

“Okay then. Here’s what you need to know about those four names. They are ours, we put them in there, the Bureau knows they are there and is okay with it.”

“Yes, sir. Am I to assume they are plants to monitor possible connections with international organizations?”

“Yes and no. That will do for the moment. I’ve talked to them all and here’s what I want you to do. One of them, Hank Baker, might be able to help you out in this. He has some information that he says could be relevant. I can’t see this being the work of someone on the fringes, but I suppose that’s all Schwartz has to work with at the moment. Anyway, I don’t want Schwartz in this patch of turf at all. I’m just being cautious, mind you, so I want you to interview Baker yourself. Break out of there for a day or two and head to Skokie and hear what he has to say. He may have some other information to pass along to me as well. Two birds, one stone, and all that.”

“Skokie? Odd place for us to lurk isn’t it?” The director did not answer, “Telephone not good then?”

“For a variety of reasons, that is to say, reasons not related to this business, absolutely no. So, no telephone. Fly out and back and use the information as if you’d gleaned it some other way. Clear?”

“What do I tell Ike?”

“Does he know what you do?”

“He’s guessed. Ike is quick. He won’t admit it, but yeah, he knows.”

“Then he won’t have any questions for you if you have to bug out for a couple of days, will he?

“No, sir, I expect he won’t.”

“Good luck. How’s the lady doing, by the way?”

“Holding her own, I think. We remain optimistic.”

“But you don’t know if she’ll make it or not?”

“No.”

“Damn.”

Charlie spent the next hour on the phone making his travel arrangements, details he could have done in five minutes if he did not have to use the Company’s travel booking service.

***

Ike had agreed to meet Charlie for dinner in Lexington. The restaurant was not far from the hospital and it allowed Ike some extra minutes with Ruth. He arrived at the Palms Restaurant a few minutes before Charlie and had a drink in his hand when the latter arrived.

“Charlie, will wonders never cease? You are on time.”

“And you are early. What are the chances of either of those two circumstances repeating singly or coincidently ever again?”

“Not good. So what news do you have for me?”

“Lists are up. Kevin will have the details for you tonight or tomorrow. It appears that as with most groups with an axe to grind with the government, the people you are interested in are primarily headquartered in the DC area. No surprise there. Also, not surprisingly, they have political action committees and money to funnel to congressmen in the form of election campaign contributions and, thereby, the wherewithal to purchase the votes they need to swing the legislation in which they have an interest.”

“No surprises there either. As far as I’m concerned, PAC funds are just legal bribes—the oil that lubricates the machinery of government.”

“Tsk, you have become a cynic in your old age, Ike.”

“Maybe. I’m not feeling terribly bright-eyed these day, that’s for sure.”

“Justifiably. However, do not lose all hope. As quirky as the system often seems, it is still more open and efficient than most countries I have visited. And if you have a problem that needs solving, you can always start your own PAC and buy a solution.”

“Goody.”

The server took their orders and refilled Ike’s glass.

“I must leave you for a few days, I am afraid. Duty in the dark recesses of the Company requires my presence. But, as the good general once famously said, ‘I shall return.’”

“Where are those dark recesses located, or can’t you say?”

“No secret, I am off to the Windy City, or near enough. Skokie, I think.”

“Interesting. This is real, or some BS you cooked up to make contact with a lady?”

“Ike, is that likely? Why would you think that?”

“Because Eden Saint Clare is also scheduled to travel to Chicago for a few days. It seemed a logical conclusion.”

“Very logical and very wrong. Why is the handsome Mrs. Saint Clare traveling to the Midwest?”

“Personal reasons, I think. Her husband is an Alzheimer’s sufferer and his sister is after Eden for a piece, at least, of the old man’s pension. He is on the last leg of his journey, she says. She goes to Chicago to consult with doctors, lawyers, and Indian chiefs, not to mention morticians.”

“Ah, some humor has returned to my dour friend. Shall I call on her?”

“I think keeping an eye on her would be a good idea. She is about to take a dip in a shark tank. Any help you can give to keep her from being devoured by attorneys who, because there is money involved, will be in a feeding frenzy, will be appreciated.”

“Give me the address of where I can find her and I will do what I can.”

Ike slid Eden’s three-by-five card across the table. Charlie studied it for thirty seconds and pushed it back.

“Got it.”

***

Ida Templeton made a much needed part-time income by working as a temp at the hospital. She had three kids under five at home and so full-time nursing was out of the question, but like many young couples, she and her husband were upside down in their mortgage and a refi not on the radar. She worked shifts, when she could get them, that were opposite those of her husband’s at the county fire department.

Tonight, she’d drawn the ICU. She liked it. Always quiet in the ICU. She looked up from her paperwork and nodded to the doctor as he passed the desk. She thought she recognized him but she’d couldn’t be sure where. She’d only been on this floor once or twice but she was sure it was not in this hospital that she’d seen this doctor. Nice looking, she thought. What other hospital could it have been? Perhaps she’d seen him that week she worked in Roanoke. She shook her head. It would come to her eventually. She gathered her papers together and sat back. An IV alarm sounded. Ms. Harris’ room again. She stood and walked down the corridor, the soles of her sneakers squeaking against the vinyl tile. She rounded the corner and saw the new doc bent over the apparatus.

“Doctor, I’ll do that, thanks.”

He stood abruptly and backed away from the machine, dropping the tubing he held in his hand.

“Doctor?”

“Sorry, I never was very good at these things. Carry on, Nurse.”

He turned and slipped through the doorway and disappeared down the hall. She frowned. Doctors seemed to be younger every year. Or was she getting older? Nah. She adjusted the IV, replaced the bag. The old one was nearly empty anyway and she could save a trip later. Very strange. She would ask who this tall, slick-looking doc was when the charge nurse came back from break. She knew most of the nurses in Rockbridge County by sight, but doctors seemed forgettable. She wondered if that was a significant psychological insight. By the time the charge nurse returned, Ida was busy updating charts and forgot to ask.