Missing Persons (23 page)

“Someone sent you a dead bird?” Andres’s voice had gotten so loud that Gray looked toward us.

“Sssh,” I said. “It gets worse. The shoe box belonged to me. Someone got into my house, stole the box, put the bird in it, and left it on my porch.”

“Did you call the police?”

I nodded. “Detective Podeski thinks I did it myself, so I would look like I’m being threatened. He thinks I’m trying to throw suspicion off me.”

I could see Gray was still watching us, so I motioned for Andres to get in the van. Once we were inside, I told him the rest.

“The sun’s about to set and I don’t want to walk into a dark house by myself. I just need you to walk in with me.”

“You can’t stay there. I’ll call my wife . . .”

“No, it’s fine. I just need someone with me when I turn the lights on.”

He nodded. “This is out of control, Kate.”

“If it’s about Frank, then it must be Vera who’s doing it.”

“That’s the nicest woman I’ve met in my life.” He paused. “Sorry. I mean, what she did was wrong, but she’s no murderer.”

“Then who?”

He shook his head. “Look, if Podeski won’t help you maybe Rosenthal will. She seems like a good cop.”

I looked at Rosenthal, still surrounded by the Morettis and their friends. “I think she has her hands full.”

“All right,” Andres said, “but if we get to your house and something’s out of place, we start making calls until somebody puts an end to it.”

 

 

As it turned out, there were no packages, no items in my house mysteriously straightened, no odd phone calls. Andres checked all the rooms, made me promise to call him if something happened, and left me alone with only ghosts to keep me company.

And although there were no bumps in the night, I did feel ghosts around me. I could still hear Linda’s inconsolable weeping when she’d heard the news. She had so convinced herself that Theresa was alive and would now, in all likelihood, replace that certainty with the belief that she could have, should have, done something to keep her daughter safe.

I knew the feeling. My own “what ifs” about Frank had haunted me every day since his death. What if I’d been more supportive of his painting? What if I had stopped nagging him about earning a living and just accepted his love and support as enough of a contribution? What if I had tried harder or been nicer? And the biggest one—if he hadn’t left, would he still be alive?

Andres had brought the three boxes of Frank’s things into my bedroom: one contained items for his parents and me; the other two were filled with clothes for donation. I separated out what I was keeping and left them on top of the earlier pile of Frank’s stuff, leaving the “family heirlooms” for Frank’s parents. I put on Frank’s Springsteen T-shirt and climbed into the queen bed we’d shared for most of our marriage.

For the last couple of years, as things had gotten colder between us, I’d found myself sleeping as far from him as possible. On a couple of occasions I nearly fell out of bed I was sleeping so close to the edge. When he left, I had the whole bed to myself for the first time in my adult life. It was odd at the beginning and then liberating. I loved being able to flop around, switching from pillow to pillow. And it was great to have both nightstands for my books, glasses, tissues, and whatever other items migrated to the room and stayed.

But once he died, the bed felt empty and cold. I’d gravitated back to my side as if I were leaving room for him. When he left me, there was the anger to fill the void. Now I felt myself actually missing him for the first time in a long time. I missed his breathing. I missed the way his big feet would cross mine or the way he would wrap his body around me, trapping me for the night. Crawling into bed knowing for certain we would never again share it made me feel completely alone.

Tonight it felt especially empty. In the old days, before we’d lost our way, when I’d had a hard day, I’d look forward to bedtime. I’d curl my body into Frank’s, press my forehead into his neck, and tell him about the crying widow, the crazy crew, and all the other frustrations of my job. He’d wrap his long arms around me and squeeze me tight.

“It’s all okay now,” he’d say. “I’ll take care of you.”

Then he’d run his fingers through my hair and gently massage the back of my head until I fell asleep in the safety of his arms.

But that was all finished now. Tonight I had only his pillow for comfort. I placed it vertically and lay against it, looking for the same warmth that had once been there. I tried to remember what it felt like to have his arms around me, but it was no use. My mind could only think of twin images: Frank’s body in the cold, hard ground and Theresa’s tossed away in the woods.

“Y
ou’re killing me, Kate!” Mike was screaming. “I mean what the fuck am I supposed to do with this?”

Mike was not a roll-with-the-punches kind of guy. He’d once yelled at me because a forensic expert had to leave our interview when he got called to the scene of a homicide. Then there was the time a tornado kept us from finishing some B-roll we needed from a DNA lab. Both of these occasions were, in Mike’s mind, my fault. Today’s screwup was finding Theresa’s body.

“The show is called
Missing Persons
,” he yelled. “Not
Dead Persons
. We already do a show about dead people. We want missing people. I sold this with the idea that the show would help find the person. How can that happen if they’ve already been found?”

I could have pointed out that I didn’t actually cause Theresa’s body to be discovered in the woods near Brookfield. But I hadn’t caused the tornado or the homicide, and explaining those situations to Mike didn’t seem to make a difference. My new tactic was silence. I just sat in my kitchen, held the phone away from me, and waited.

After ten more minutes of ranting, Mike finally ran out of energy and profanities. “We’ve put a lot of money into this. I can’t just shelve it. Any chance they’ll get the killer in the next two weeks?”

“I’m sure that’s what they’re hoping for, Mike. But if you’re thinking of transferring this to a
Caught!
episode, you’ll need a conviction or a plea before you can go on the air saying the case is solved. That could take years.”

He grunted. “I’ll call the network. Maybe I can fix this. Damn it, Kate, this is a huge problem.” With that, he hung up.

What a lovely way to spend a Sunday morning.

 

 

My afternoon didn’t get much better. I’d called Alex to let him know I had Frank’s things back from Vera, but instead of picking them up at my place, he’d asked me over for lunch. I was hoping the invitation meant that Lynette wasn’t home. I was wrong. When I arrived she greeted me with excessive, and suspicious, warmth.

“My poor Kate,” she said. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“Well, I’m here now.”

She fussed over me, bringing me iced tea and complimenting the color of my T-shirt and generally making both Alex and me uncomfortable. By the time I stuck my fork into my pear and walnut salad, I was counting the minutes until my escape.

In the dining room, and on her best dishes, she’d laid out a spread of cold roast beef, homemade focaccia, and three-bean salad. On the sideboard was her specialty, a lemon layer cake with fresh strawberries and whipped cream. Say what you like about Lynette, and God knows I had, but she can cook. It was almost worth spending the afternoon with her. Almost, because it always came at a price. If Lynette had gone to all this trouble for me, she didn’t just want something. She wanted something big.

“It was so nice of you to bring Frank’s things home,” Lynette said just as I’d finished my roast beef. “They’re all we have of him now.”

“I was happy to do it.”

I looked toward Alex, who clearly had no more idea where this was going than I did. Lynette got up, took our plates, and in a move that was totally out of character, piled them on the sideboard next to the lemon cake. Lynette hated messes, actual and metaphorical. One small way to avoid them was to put the dinner dishes in the dishwasher before serving dessert. She’d done it that way for twenty years. The only reason I could think of that she’d break the habit now was because she didn’t want to leave Alex and me alone.

I’d been at her house a thousand times and made the offer a thousand times, so I did it again. “Let me load the dishwasher for you, Lynette.”

She’d never let me touch her dishes, concerned I might break them or maybe be better at dishwashing than she was, but today she looked up at me and said, “That would be so helpful, dear. You’re so very thoughtful.”

I carried the dishes to the kitchen, silently humming the theme to
The Twilight Zone
, and stacked them carefully in the dishwasher. As I loaded the last plate, I realized what this was about. Lynette wanted her hands on one more of Frank’s belongings, the insurance money.

I’d been ambivalent about the money since the moment Alex told me. I needed it, and maybe I deserved it. But it wasn’t really Frank’s insurance policy. Alex had set it up and paid the premiums. Taking it seemed like taking money from Alex. But while
I
might feel that way, I wasn’t prepared to be told that by my ex-mother-in-law. I debated whether I should beat her to the punch by turning down the money or whether I should storm off now. I chose the first. Storming off would only delay the inevitable and mean more visits with Lynette. Besides, if I left I’d miss dessert. And she did make a really good lemon cake.

“I’ve always wanted your recipe for this,” I said as I returned to my seat and the slice of cake that was waiting for me.

“I’ll make you copies of all my recipes,” she said. “But this one can be a little tricky. Perhaps when you’re not so busy, you can come over and we’ll make it together.”

“That would be great.” I glanced toward Alex, who was now avoiding my eyes.

“I’m sorry, but I’ll have to rush off after lunch. I’ve been working a lot and I’ve got so many errands to run. But there is something I wanted to talk—”

Lynette cut me off. “You do so much. I always said to Alex that you were run off your feet. Didn’t I, Alex?”

“Well . . . ,” he started.

“And I don’t think Frank was as helpful to you as he should have been. That’s why when Detective Podeski told me about Frank’s insurance policy I was so glad it was going to you.”

Alex leaned forward. “You knew Kate was the beneficiary?”

“Of course, dear. Though I have to admit I was a little annoyed you hadn’t told me. But I suppose we’re all a little preoccupied with our grief.”

Alex turned white. He wasn’t a shrinking violet but he did know how to keep the peace, and when it came to Frank, he generally let Lynette have her way. I felt a little bad that he was in for whatever punishment Lynette had in store, but right now I was more concerned about me.

“It should help you fix up that house of yours. I know Frank did what he could but he’s not around now, is he? And Kate . . .” She paused. “Maybe it would be a good idea for you to take a vacation. When’s the last time you just relaxed on the beach?”

“I don’t remember. I work a lot.” I took a deep breath.

I felt like a rat in one of those laboratory mazes, desperately trying to find my way out but knowing that even if I succeeded my reward wouldn’t be freedom, just a trip back to my cage.

“How’s work going?” she asked.

“We’re doing a show about a woman who went missing a year ago. The police just found her body yesterday.”

“How sad. You do a lot of those investigative shows, don’t you?”

“I do some.”

“I’ll bet you know a lot about how to catch a killer.”

“I guess.” I was sweating. In twenty years she hadn’t once asked me about my work.

Lynette smiled. “Well, then, I need you to do me a favor.”

“I
think”—she leaned toward me—“you could find evidence about who killed Frank.”

“Lynette!” Alex nearly shouted. “What are you talking about?”

“That detective was talking to me about Frank’s death, and he seemed to think that Frank was murdered,” she said.

I tried to sound calm. “Lynette, he seems to think I did it.”

“Kate, I’ve known you most of your life. You don’t have what it takes to kill someone.”

She’d managed to make my lack of homicidal tendencies sound like an insult. I relaxed. I was back on familiar territory.

“Then what are you asking?” Alex demanded to know.

“Kate was obviously successful in getting Frank’s things back from that woman. She’s spoken to her. She’s been to her house. All I’m asking is that she check her out a little. Use the skills she’s gotten from working on those shows. Frank left her a tidy sum of money. How can she possibly enjoy it, knowing his killer is walking free?”

I took a bite of my lemon cake. I wasn’t sure I wanted to say anything, but I knew I had no choice. Mike had a different style from Lynette’s, but they were both bulldozers. I’d learned it was impossible to oppose either of them.

“In my own clumsy way,” I admitted, “I’ve actually been trying to find out what really happened to Frank.”

Lynette’s eyes filled with tears. She jumped up and grabbed me, hugging me genuinely for the first time since I’d told her years ago that Frank and I were trying for a baby.

 

 

She insisted on moving the group into the living room and making fresh coffee before we discussed what I knew. Alex and I sat dumbfounded while Lynette put out cups and saucers and tiny pastel-colored mints. It was the sort of highly civilized discussion of murder that would normally require the presence of Miss Marple.

After the coffee had been poured, Lynette settled into the floral overstuffed chair that was her favorite and asked me what I thought of “her.”

“She seems very nice,” I said. “She seems to have loved him. If Frank was murdered, I suppose it makes sense that Vera did it but I don’t see motive.”