Cheated By Death (17 page)

I didn’t find anything on Lou Holtzinger. I
needed to get to the courthouse and look up his criminal record and
see if any of the other protesters were ex-cons, too. But I didn’t
have time that day. I hoped I wouldn’t have to visit every township
to gather complete information. The thought of all the upcoming
legwork made me realize how much I missed my resources at the
insurance company.

I wasted another hour getting my headlight
replaced. By the time I got home, the mailman was heading down the
street. I parked the car and jogged to the mailbox. Sure enough, at
the bottom of the stack of junk mail was that familiar envelope.
Holly was waiting behind the pantry door, her tail wagging with
excitement as I entered the house. I let her out before settling at
the table. I didn’t bother to remove my jacket but quickly donned a
pair of latex gloves and slit the envelope.

The one-word message chilled me: DIE!

11

Detective Bonnie Wilder of the Amherst Police
Department studied the three letters. I guessed her to be in her
early forties, looking more like a sedentary librarian than a cop.
A gold band encircled her left ring finger and silver roots graced
the base of the part in her dark hair.

“This is unusual,” she said, looking up at me
over the rims of her gold-frame glasses. “You say you’re the
target’s brother-in-law? Why didn’t she come in herself?”

“She doesn’t know about the last two letters.
She’s pregnant. My brother and I didn’t want to upset her.”

“She’s going to be pissed,” the detective
predicted.

Despite the knot in my stomach, I managed a
weak smile, appreciating her laid-back attitude. “Yeah.”

“Of course by opening these, you’ve tampered
with the U.S. Mail. That’s a federal offense.”

“Are you going to arrest me?”

She shook her head and proceeded to bag the
letters and envelopes separately. “I’ll send these to the lab and
see what they come up with. What else have you got?”

I handed her an envelope with copies of my
photos. Post-It notes identified each of the subjects. While she
scrutinized them, I unfolded the list of license plate numbers I’d
taken at the First Gospel Church and the record of the prank phone
calls. I told her about the incidents at the clinic’s parking lot,
Brenda’s run-in with Reverend Linden, and my own encounter with Lou
Holtzinger the night before. Tom said he drove a truck. I was
willing to bet it was the same one I’d seen at the church—the one
with the gun rack.

“You said you’re a bartender?” she asked.

“I used to be an insurance investigator.”

“A pretty good one by the look of this
stuff.”

“I knew I’d eventually bring it to the
police. I had to wait ’til I’d collected enough to interest
you.”

“Oh, I’m interested—and the FBI may be, too.
But I need to speak with your sister-in-law before I can open a
case file.”

I glanced at my watch. “How about right now?
She’s at the Williamsville Women’s Health Center.”

“Dammit, Jeffy, why didn’t you tell me about
this? I’m a grown-up, too,” Brenda protested, glaring at me. As
Wilder had predicted, she was pissed.

Brenda and Detective Wilder sat in the
visitor chairs in Tim Davies’ stark office, while I held up the
wall next to a file cabinet. The clinic’s security chief’s small
office reminded me of prison cell, thanks to its gunmetal furniture
and walls.

Photocopies of the three letters lay on the
edge of the desk before Brenda. She turned her worried gaze back to
Detective Wilder. “What happens now?”

“Tell me everything.”

Brenda recounted what I’d already told the
lady cop, giving it a different spin, but essentially the same
information.

“Could the letters, phone calls and other
incidents against you be racially motivated?” Wilder asked.

I looked up, suddenly remembering Patty’s
stupid remark the week before. I’d forgotten to mention that.

“No,” Brenda answered and sighed. “I haven’t
had any trouble. Neither has my husband—at least not that I know
about. We keep a pretty low profile.”

“I’d advise you to stay that way until we
figure out what’s going on,” Detective Wilder said. “Have you had
problems with neighbors? Kids? Any traffic mishaps? Perhaps a death
in the family?”

“No.”

“What about your ex-husband?”

“It could be him. I haven’t talked to him
since last Tuesday.”

“What precautions have you taken?” Davies
asked.

“Jeffy walks me into work,” Brenda said.

“We’re having a security system installed on
Friday,” I added. “The phone number was changed as of today,
too.”

“We’ll have a talk with your ex-husband,”
Detective Wilder said. “And I’ll see if we can get a patrol car to
pass the clinic every hour or so during the day, and around your
house in the evenings. A police presence should keep the protesters
from getting cocky. It’s possible someone’s just trying to scare
you. But I’d advise on the side of caution.”

Brenda’s smile was tight. “Thank you.”

“Have you mentioned these calls and incidents
to other staff members?” Detective Wilder asked.

“No. They’re just as nervous as me. I figured
if clinic security knew about it, that would be enough.”

The detective nodded. “Is there a reason
someone would single you out?”

“Nothing I can think of.”

“What about that TV interview?” Davies
said.

Brenda blinked. “I’d forgotten all about
it.”

“What interview?” Wilder asked.

“When the school year started, I went to
several high schools to talk to pregnant teens about prenatal
care.”

“Not abortion?” Wilder asked.

“No.”

“We got flack from several churches,
including The First Gospel Church,” Davies said.

“I knew there had to be a connection,” Wilder
said. “Otherwise why would Reverend Linden be here?” No one had an
answer. “I’d like to speak to some of the other women on
staff.”

“No problem,” the security chief said. “I’ll
take you around now, if you like.”

“I’ll keep in touch,” Detective Wilder
promised, placing her business card in front of Brenda on the desk,
then she and Davies left us alone.

Brenda stared at the worn carpet, nervously
twisting her wedding band.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m just really annoyed.”

“Then why not do us all a favor and
resign.”

She looked at me. “I did—this morning.
Friday’s my last day.”

“Good.”

Her expression soured.

“Hey, Rich and I aren’t just being bossy,
overbearing men. We care about you.”

“Don’t you think I know that?”

“Well, do you?”

She glared at me, then her angry expression
melted into an ironic smile. “Of course I do. But what am I going
to do, sit at home all day worrying that some kook is out to get
me?”

“Rich will be working at the clinic full time
for the next few weeks. I’m sure they’d be glad to see your smiling
face every day, too.”

“I suppose. But I
like
this job. I
feel like I make a difference here.”

“You can make a difference in a safer place.”
I handed her her coat. “Now, come on. Let’s get out of here.”

We both
saw the long white florist’s
box sitting on the front doorstep as we pulled up the drive.
“They’ll be for you, of course,” I said, as I shut off the engine
and withdrew the key. “No one ever sends me flowers.”

“Richard’s such a romantic,” she said, her
eyes shining with excitement.

“You get them. I’ll let the dog out.”

Holly was happily sniffing the grass in the
back yard—no doubt on the trail of a squirrel—by the time Brenda
retrieved the box from the step and headed for the back door. I
didn’t even have a key to the front door, I realized, and wondered
if she did.

I held the door for Brenda and wondered why
Richard had ordered the flowers to be delivered instead of giving
them to Brenda himself.

I switched on the lights while Brenda
shrugged out of her coat, tossing it onto a chair. She stood over
the box on the kitchen table, wriggled the ribbon off the end,
removed the lid, and drew back the green florist’s tissue. She
gasped.

“Gorgeous, huh?” I asked, taking off my
jacket.

She shoved the box aside as though scalded
and turned away—a wave of her shock smacked me headlong.

I looked into the box and felt cold. A dozen
black roses, with wicked thorns still gracing their slender
stems.

YOU WILL DIE,
was the message on the
letters she’d received. Now this
.

I snatched the envelope from among the
tissue, and yanked out the card: “Who’s sorry now?” No
signature.

“My God, who’s doing this?” she managed,
voice hushed to almost a whisper, and sank into one of the wooden
chairs.

I snatched the box lid and turned for the
phone, punched in the numbers under the gold-embossed logo. I
waited as it rang: one, two, three, four times.

“Castlerock Florist. Can I help you?”

“Yeah. What kind of sick bastard sends black
roses?”

There was a pause. “There is no true black
rose,” the woman said. “But I think I know the order you’re talking
about. Would you verify the address, please?”

I gave her the information. “Who ordered
them?” I demanded.

“Please hold while I look it up.”

Brenda stared at the ceramic tile floor, her
right hand covering her mouth, eyes wide with fear. I’d almost
swear she’d paled.

The woman came back on the line. “They were
ordered this morning by a Mr. W. M. Morgan.”

“Have you got an address?”

“Sorry, sir, I can’t give out that
information.”

“Thanks, anyway.” I hung up the phone and
stared into the box. The florist was right. They weren’t really
black—more a deep purple.

“It was Willie, right?” Brenda asked.

“Yeah. Who’s sorry now?” I repeated. “What
the hell is that supposed to mean? His not-so-subtle reminder that
you and he are black and Richard isn’t? Or a thinly veiled
threat?”

Brenda wasn’t listening. “I didn’t think I’d
have to call Detective Wilder so soon.”

“I’ll do it,” I said. She retrieved the card
from her purse and gave it to me.

The lady cop hadn’t yet returned to the
station. I left a message, asking her to get back to us.

I hung up the phone, heard Holly barking, and
went to let her in. Brenda got up from her chair, drew the kitchen
drapes against the deepening twilight.

“Did you hear from Patty today?” she asked,
as Holly trotted in and planted herself in front of the fridge,
waiting for a snack.

“No. I guess I’d better check my messages,” I
said, and turned back for the phone. I called my own number,
punched in the retrieval code. One message. I had a feeling I
didn’t want to hear it.

“Jeffrey? It’s Patty.” Her voice sounded
flat, resigned. “Dad slipped into a coma this morning. You’d better
come to the hospital if you want to see him before the end.
Bye.”

I replaced the receiver.

“Shit.”

“Bad news?” Brenda asked.

“Yeah.”

I tried reaching Richard at the clinic, but
he’d already left and had apparently hadn’t turned on his cell
phone.

“Will you be all right on your own?” I asked
Brenda, pulling my jacket on again.

“I’ve got Holly to protect me,” she said, and
smoothed the silky hair on the dog’s head, setting Holly’s tail
thumping against the floor. “And Richard will be home any minute
now. Go,” she said.

“I feel rotten leaving you alone right
now.”

“Willie sent roses, not a bomb.”

“This time,” I said.

She frowned. “Go.”

The late
afternoon traffic was heavy.
I kept thinking of Brenda all alone in that big house, yet I found
myself welcoming every red light or other delay that would keep me
from the hospital.

Why did this have to happen now?

I didn’t know who’d be with my father or what
I’d say to them. I had a premonition of what I’d experience upon
entering that room: being sucked into some dark miasma of misery.
My hands clenched the steering wheel.

In the lobby, I pressed the elevator button
and the doors obediently surged open. Upstairs, the nurses’ station
was empty. No geezers with walkers blocked the oddly quiet
corridors. I headed for my father’s room.

Patty wasn’t around. The old man was alone.
Why wasn’t anyone keeping a death vigil? Had they all stepped out
for an early dinner?

Propped up in bed, Chet looked asleep. His
waxy complexion had a grayish tone. Without his dentures, his face
seemed thin—caved in. Each breath was a struggle.

“Dad?” I called, still uncomfortable with the
title—not expecting an answer. “Dad, it’s Jeff.”

I stood over him, feeling self-conscious.
Incredibly, I thought about Star Trek’s Mr. Spock and Vulcan mind
melds. After being clunked on the head with a baseball bat, I could
sometimes absorb others’ emotions like a sponge. I found myself
suddenly envious of those fictional, unemotional aliens who’d
learned to turn off all feelings.

I clenched my hands to keep them from
trembling. If I touched the old man, would I gain a whole new
understanding of him? Would I learn something to make up for all
the years I hadn’t known my father? Would it give both of us peace
of mind? So far I’d only gotten sadness and regret from him—and an
inkling of the depths of his ravaging illness.

I went back to the door, shut it, craving
privacy, somehow knowing this would be my only chance to say
good-bye. As I neared the bed, I reached out—stopped, afraid. I had
to force myself to rest my fingers on the gnarled knuckles of his
puffy hand.

The skin was cool, but I got nothing. No
sense of him remained. The body lived, but his mind, his life
essence, was ebbing, already inaccessible to me.