Daddy's Gone a Hunting (28 page)

The waiter had arrived. “Two ham-and-cheese on rye, lettuce, with mustard. Two black coffees,” he verified as he roughly put down the plates on the table, followed by the coffee cups.

Jessie looked at the splatters of coffee in her saucer. “Four-star dining,” she murmured. “Oh well. The sandwiches here are always good.”

“If they do find out who was in the van, what do you think that means for Kate and Gus?” Hannah demanded.

“I don’t know. That van was in the far back end of the lot, a good distance away from the buildings. If some homeless person was in it, he may have been sleeping off a hangover and know absolutely nothing. But it does mean, as far as I can tell, that they have to nail down who was there and what it means. And that is potentially good for Kate.”

“It’s good unless whoever was there saw something that would be bad for Kate.” Hannah took a sip of coffee and picked up her sandwich.

“Knowing you, you’ll eat that half and leave the other on the plate,” Jessie said matter-of-factly.

“You’re right. What can I tell you? It’s awfully big. You probably were working out at five
A.M.
You need to finish yours.”

“I was working out at six
A.M.
,” Jessie confirmed. “Hannah, I get the feeling that you are worried that Kate was involved in the explosion. Am I wrong to feel that way?”

She watched as Hannah framed her response. She does think, or know, that Kate was involved, Jessie thought, dismayed.

“All right. Let me tell you exactly what happened. On Thursday afternoon when Dad was alone with Kate, she said something to him. I was just coming into the intensive care unit but I could see his face. He looked scared. That’s the only word for it: scared. When I insisted that he tell me what Kate had told him, he said that she was sorry about the fire.”

“She was sorry about . . .,” Jessie began to repeat slowly.

“You can imagine what I was thinking, that Kate set the fire. But then a few days later, Dad said that he realized he had been so shocked about everything that he was garbled about what Kate had told him. He claimed that what she said was that she was sorry about the fire, meaning that she knew how much he loved the complex.”

“That is one very big difference, to say the least,” Jessie snapped. “Which version do you believe?”

“I cannot believe my sister is an arsonist.”

“Nor can I,” Jessie said emphatically, “but I have to tell you that Doug has been on the phone with me. He’s determined to create the scenario that Gus tricked Kate into meeting him at the complex. The way he explains her call to him is that she was always very friendly with Gus and just happened to call to chat with him. The rest of the scenario that Doug wants to put out is that Gus hated him so much for forcing him into retirement that he figured out a good way to punish Doug. He tricked Kate into meeting him at the time he knew the explosion would go off. He probably told Kate that he needed her help. But something went wrong. Gus gets killed and Kate gets badly injured.”

Jessie took the last bite of the first half of her sandwich and reached for the other half. “A disgruntled employee blew up the complex. The injured daughter is an innocent victim and the insurance is paid. Get the picture?”

“Suppose, if Kate recovers—make that
when
Kate recovers—and can talk about it, she says that that is not the way it happened?” Hannah asked, quietly.

“I don’t know.” Jessie did not want to tell Hannah that she was sensing a certain desperation in Douglas Connelly. No matter what, he can always get a lot of money for just the property, she thought. But he’s counting on the big prize, millions more in insurance. I wouldn’t want to be the one to stand in his way of getting it.

64

L
ottie Schmidt could see from the caller identification on her phone that it was Gretchen. It was Wednesday midafternoon, which meant that Gretchen might have canceled yet another appointment with one of her massage clients. After she got back to Minnesota and was inside her beautiful home, it finally got through her thick skull that those fire marshals were so interested in her house because they wanted to know how she was able to pay for it, Lottie thought.

She folded her hands in her lap. She had been sitting at the table of their small dining room going through some photo albums when the phone rang. Then, not wanting to pick it up and wishing she had the courage to walk away, she listened to Gretchen’s frantic message. “Mama, I know you’re never out at this time so why aren’t you picking up? Mama, did Poppa do something funny to get the money to buy my house? If he did, why didn’t you tell me? I never would have shown those pictures to those marshals or cops or whoever they are. Why didn’t you say it straight? Mama, a lot of things went wrong in my life. You and Poppa were so strict. Never let me have any fun. Always telling me to study harder, that my marks were never good enough. I married Jeff to get out of the house and that was a nightmare. I waited on him hand and foot because that was the way you waited on Poppa. And—”

The thirty-second limit for leaving a message on the answering
machine was up. Thank God, Lottie thought, then shrugged. What can you do? Buy the house for her and you’re a saint. Now her big mouth might cause her to lose it and it’s my fault.

She looked down at the photo album. She and Gus had both been twenty years old when they were married by the minister in her mother’s backyard in Baden-Baden, Germany. She was wearing a white blouse and skirt, and Gus a rented blue suit. The next day they had left Germany to go to America.

I was smiling, Lottie thought. I was so happy. Gus looked scared but happy, too. I knew how definite he was, and how rigid, but it didn’t matter. It still doesn’t matter. He loved me and he took good care of me. He was such a proud man. When we moved here to Little Neck, and our friends were so thrilled to buy new furniture and show it off, I would say to him, “Gus, don’t have that look on your face. I know what you’re thinking. That they paid too much for it. That it’s cheaply made. Let them enjoy it.”

He had made their own furniture himself. In all these years, they had only redone the upholstery twice and of course he had done the work in their garage.

For a craftsman like that to have been so insulted, so wounded. It explained everything.

The doorbell rang. Lottie had been so lost in reminiscing that the time had gone by more swiftly than she had realized. It was already three thirty, and Peter Callow, the young lawyer who had grown up in the house next door, was coming to talk to her.

She had called him after the fire marshals were at the house on Monday.

Lottie knew that this was going to be hard. It was embarrassing to put herself in the hands of someone whom she could still see as the kid who broke her living room window playing softball.

She got up, her hands pressing on the table to ease the weight on her knees, walked to the door, and opened it. The self-assured
attorney in an overcoat, business suit, and tie still had the same warm smile of the eight-year-old who was so grateful when she had told him that she knew he didn’t mean to break her window.

As she took his coat and put it in the hall closet, and then as they walked into the living room, she was assuring Peter that, since Gus had died, she was doing all right, that she would be all right. After he refused coffee or tea or even water, they sat down. “How can I help you, Mrs. Schmidt?” he asked.

Lottie had decided that she would not beat around the bush. “Five years ago, Gus told me that he had won a lottery. That was all he said. He used the money to buy a house for Gretchen in Minnesota and an annuity so she could pay the overhead.”

Peter Callow did not say how wonderful that was. He knew immediately that there was more to the story.

“They’re trying to blame the Connelly explosion on Gus. The fire marshals were at the wake and came here Monday. They were asking about Gretchen’s house.”

“How did they know about it?”

“Because she couldn’t wait to talk about it,” Lottie snapped, bitterly.

“If Mr. Schmidt won a lottery and paid whatever taxes he owed, there shouldn’t be a problem,” Peter said. “The marshals will be able to check that out very easily.”

“I’m not sure Gus won a lottery,” Lottie said.

“Then where did he get the money for the house and annuity?”

“I don’t know. He never told me.”

Peter Callow could see, from the deep crimson blush that was enveloping the cheeks of the elderly woman who had been his former neighbor, that she was lying. “Mrs. Schmidt,” he said gently, “if they can’t find any record of Mr. Schmidt winning a lottery and paying his taxes, they’ll be back here questioning you. And I would have to assume that they’ll even go out to Minnesota and talk to Gretchen.”

“Gretchen hasn’t any idea where her father got the money to buy her house.”

“And Mr. Schmidt never gave you a hint?”

Lottie looked away. “No.”

“Mrs. Schmidt, I want to help you. But you know that the media is going as far as it can, without risking a lawsuit for libel, to speculate that Mr. Schmidt conspired with Kate Connelly to set off the explosion. How long has Gretchen had the house?”

“Five years.”

“Wasn’t that about the time that Mr. Schmidt was asked to retire?”

“Yes, it was.” Lottie hesitated. “Peter, will you be my lawyer? I mean, can you be with me when they are talking to me?”

“Yes, of course I can, Mrs. Schmidt.” Peter Callow got up. The way this seems to be going, he thought, my new client may soon have to invoke the Fifth Amendment and say nothing further to anybody.

65

F
rank Ramsey and Nathan Klein stayed in the hospital with Peggy and Skip as they made arrangements with the funeral home in Staten Island to come for Clyde’s body.

Then, composed and calm, Peggy called her pastor at St. Rita’s to tell him that she had seen her husband just before he died, and that she wanted to have a funeral mass on Friday morning.

They were sitting in a small office where they had been invited to wait while the doctor signed the death certificate and she made the calls. Skip was standing protectively behind Peggy, but when she laid down her cell phone, she suddenly turned in the swivel chair and asked, “What are they going to put down as the cause of death?” Without waiting for an answer, she said, “Because if they put acute alcoholism, I want the death certificate torn up. Clyde died of pneumonia.”

As she spoke, the doctor, who had hurried to Clyde’s bedside when the alarms on the machines that monitored his breathing had gone off, tapped on the partially open door of the room and came in. He had obviously overheard Peggy, because he said, in a gentle and understanding tone, “You are absolutely right, Mrs. Hotchkiss. Your husband died of pneumonia and I assure you that is what is on this certificate.”

Peggy’s hand began to tremble as she reached for the envelope he was holding out to her.

“I’ll take it, Mom,” Skip said.

Peggy dropped her hand. Then looking past everyone, she asked, “You know what crazy thought went through my head just now?” It was a rhetorical question. Skip and the doctor and the fire marshals waited.

“
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
is one of my all-time favorite books,” Peggy told them, the tone of her voice reminiscent. “When the character Johnny, who was an alcoholic, dies, his wife pleads with the doctor to make the cause of death ‘pneumonia’ because he really did have pneumonia. She tells him that she has nice kids and doesn’t want them to ever have to say that their father died of alcoholism. Well, I’ve got a nice son and four nice grandchildren and my husband was a war hero and I won’t have anyone forget that.”

“Mom, you heard what the doctor said. It’s okay.” Skip put his hands on his mother’s shoulders.

Peggy brushed back the tears that were beginning to slip down her cheeks. “Yes, of course and thank you. Thank you very much.”

“My sympathy, Mrs. Hotchkiss.” With a brief nod, the doctor was gone.

Steadied by Skip, Peggy stood up. “I guess there’s nothing more I can do here. The funeral director said he would take care of clothing for Clyde.” She looked at Frank Ramsey and Nathan Klein. “You’ve been so kind. If I had been too late to see Clyde before he died, it would have been terrible for me. I wouldn’t have been on time if the police car hadn’t picked me up and rushed me to the hospital. I needed to have him go, knowing that we were with him and that we loved him. But now you have to tell me: Who was the girl you asked Clyde about?”