Mother's Day (11 page)

“Throw in the appliances first,” she whispered. “Then we can cover them up with the bags.”

Herb lifted an ancient, grease-encrusted broiler over from the back of the car. “Why in the world did she keep this?” he cried. “We gave her a microwave two Christmases ago. This thing probably hasn’t been fired up in ten years!”

“I don’t know, honey,” said Jean, trying to be patient. She couldn’t blame him for complaining. It was a big job, and he’d been working like a trooper. And she had to admit, her mother had been a compulsive saver of useless items. “The Depression mentality, you know,” said Jean. “I guess she thought she might need it sometime.”

With a sigh, Herb lifted up the oven. “Okay,” he said. “Shine it in there.”

Jean climbed up on the lower rim of the Dumpster and pointed the flashlight on the piles of loose, rotten produce and broken boxes inside. On top of the pile was an overstuffed black trash bag. “We’re not the only ones doing this,” she observed.

“Just hold the light steady,” Herb said, wrinkling his nose against the smell. He tossed the rotisserie over the side of the Dumpster. The sharp comer of the broiler oven snagged on the bag below it.

“Now get the portable TV,” Jean ordered.

“Aye-aye,” said Herb. He walked back to the car while Jean glanced around the empty lot. She knew these stores sometimes had security guards who patrolled. The sooner they got out of there, the better.

“One long-gone black-and-white Sylvania portable coming up,” said Herb, carrying it toward the Dumpster.

Jean started to giggle nervously. “Let’s keep it,” she said.

“The hell we will,” Herb cried, tossing the TV onto the pile. It tumbled in, fell atop the rotisserie, and then turned over. The broiler oven teetered and crashed on top of it, tearing the bag beneath it as it went. Jean shined the light inside and saw something dark and shiny oozing from the torn bag.

Herb walked back to the station wagon and peered inside. “I hope there’s room in there for all this crap,” he said. “What next?”

His wife did not answer.

He held up a rusted Christmas tree stand. “How ‘bout this little beauty?” He turned around. “Jeannie?” he said.

- Jean was staring into the Dumpster. She turned and looked at him, her face pasty white. “Oh, God,” she whispered. Then her eyes rolled back in her head and her knees gave way beneath her.

Herb rushed to catch her, clutching her awkwardly under her armpits. “Jeannie, what?” he cried. Her flashlight had dropped into the Dumpster as she fell. Herb looked over the edge. In the flashlight’s fixed beam he glimpsed the blood, the matted hair, and one lifeless blue eye. He sagged against the Dumpster, holding his wife, squeezing her. “Jesus Christ,” he cried. “Help! Somebody help!”

Emily Ference stood in her immaculate kitchen, trying to thread her matching fabric belt through the belt loops in her dress. Her head was pounding and her hands trembled as she fumbled behind her to feel if she had missed any loops. Sure enough, she could feel one of the loops flattened by the belt. Pulling back the stiffened tongue of the belt, she tried again.

She licked her upper lip in her concentration and tasted the salty perspiration there. It was warm for May. That was part of it. The other part—well, the evidence glinted at her from the recycling can in the pantry where she had carefully deposited the empty gin bottle before she lost track of things last night. The dryness in her mouth, the roiling in her stomach, were also there to remind her of her shameful evening.

Have your coffee, comb your hair, take some aspirin, she recited to herself. You’ll feel better. She had one more belt loop to achieve when a rapping on the door sent her into a panic. Not already, she thought. She’s early.

Every weekday morning, Emily’s sister-in-law, Sylvia Ference, came and picked her up, and the two women went to early mass together. Sylvia went off to her job at the bank after church, and Emily would return to her empty house, full of repentance and good intentions that seemed to evaporate when she crossed the threshold. As far as Emily knew, her weakness was her own secret, but it took some doing to keep it that way. She always kept herself and the house looking neat, and she tried always to be on time and act appropriately. She gave no one any cause to wonder about her. She tried to make sure of that.

Frantically Emily pulled the belt over the loop and fastened it, smoothing her hair with one hand as she went toward the door. “I’m coming,” she said, trying not to let the anxiety sound in her voice. She opened the door, prepared to make a little joke about her state of unreadiness, and was surprised to see a young officer, Larry Tillman, on the doorstep.

“Good morning, Mrs. Ference,” he said. He had strawberry-blond hair and freckles. Emily could remember him from boyhood. He was one of Walter’s best men these days.

“Good morning, Larry. I was expecting my sister-in-law.”

“Is Lieutenant Ference here?” he asked politely.

“Well, he is, but he’s sleeping. It’s his day off.”

The young officer spoke in a somber but urgent tone. There was an undeniable note of excitement in his voice. “The chief told me to come and get him. I’m afraid you’ll have to wake him up. We have a homicide.”

Emily needed no further explanation. “There’s coffee, help yourself,” she said, pointing toward the kitchen as she hurried off to the bedroom.

Walter Ference was sleeping on his side in their bed, his hands tucked under his face like a small child. At fifty-two his skin was smooth except for the pucker of the scar on his forehead. He looked young and vulnerable. Guiltily she wondered whether he had found her in bed last night when he got home or had put her there. She hoped she had made it under her own steam. He would never mention it in any case.

Walter sighed and turned over on his back. Emily stared at him a minute, wondering if either Joey or Ted would have grown up to look like their father. Before the yawning darkness could open up inside of her again, Emily pushed the thought away and shook her husband by the shoulder.

Walter opened his eyes and looked at her alertly, although she knew he must still be dazed with sleep. It came from years of being a cop, she thought.

“Young Larry Tillman is here,” she said. “Chief Matthews sent him to get you. Apparently they have a murder.”

Walter’s body stiffened visibly under the bedclothes, and he stared up at the ceiling. She could see he was trying to clear the cobwebs of sleep and leftover dreams from his mind. Suddenly he sat bolt upright and threw his legs over the side of the bed. He rubbed his hands rapidly over his face. “Okay,” he said, reaching for his glasses on the bedside table. “I’ll be right there.”

“Let me pour you some coffee,” she said.

Emily stopped in the bathroom, took her aspirin, combed her hair, and returned through the maze of rooms on the first floor to the kitchen. Larry Tillman was seated at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee beside him.

“He’s coming,” Emily said.

“Okay,” said Larry, drumming absently on the tabletop. “This is a nice old house. I like old houses,” he said to fill up the silence.

“Thank you,” said Emily. “Walter grew up here. It was quite an elegant home in its day.”

“It’s still nice,” said Larry loyally.

“Thanks,” said Emily. She knew they had let the place get run-down over the years. It was really too much house to care for, too much house for just two people, but they had been a family of four when Walter bought out Sylvia’s half. At the time it had seemed the ideal house in which to raise up the boys.

A knock at the back door made Emily jump. “That’s Sylvia,” she said. She walked over and opened the door to her sister-in-law. The young officer stood up politely. Sylvia looked from Officer Tillman to Emily. “Isn’t it Walter’s day off?” she said.

“Yes, it is,” said Emily. “But there’s been a murder.”

Sylvia made a sign of the cross over the breast of her suit jacket and then peered at the young cop. “Who was it?” she asked.

Walter came into the kitchen, knotting a tie. “Good morning,” he said. He looked at Larry. “What happened?”

“A couple found the body of a white female in a Dumpster behind the Shop-Rite about an hour ago.”

Emily and Sylvia gasped.

Walter’s expression was grim. “How long’s she been dead?”

Larry shook his head. “Not long. Overnight. Beaten to death, apparently. Dr. Jansen’s there now.”

“Do we have an ID?” Walter asked, filling his pockets with change from a bowl on the countertop and accepting his coffee mug from Emily.

Officer Tillman glanced down at his pad of notes. “Chicago license. Tentative as Linda Emery.”

“Little Linda Emery,” Sylvia cried. “That can’t be. She disappeared years ago. You remember the Emerys,” she said to Walter.

“He drowned a little while back,” said Emily.

“That’s right, he was a carpenter,” said Sylvia. “Quiet fellow. They kept to themselves. And Linda used to tag along with him everywhere he went like a little dog.”

Emily grimaced at the unfortunate image.

“Well, there would be nothing left to her by now,” said Sylvia. “She’d be a skeleton, like that Amber girl.”

“Oh, no, ma’am,” said Larry. “This must not be the same person. This woman was in her thirties.”

“Well, how can that be?” said Sylvia. “That girl disappeared without a trace, must be fifteen years now.”

“No details,” Walter snapped. “We’ll discuss it on the way.”

Sylvia drew herself up indignantly. “How dare you, Walter. Your own sister.”

“I don’t want this all over the bank before we even have a chance to sort it out.”

“That is an insult. As if I were going to be telling everyone in sight,” Sylvia sniffed.

“We aren’t supposed to divulge the details,” said Larry apologetically.

“Well, phooey,” said Sylvia. “1 don’t want to hear all the gory details anyway.”

“Are you ready, sir?” asked Larry.

Walter sighed. “Let’s go.”

“We’ve got to go, too, Emily,” said Sylvia. “Did you know you missed a belt loop there?”

“Yes,” said Emily distractedly. “I’m just looking for my purse.”

“Don’t wait supper for me,” said Walter, kissing Emily on the cheek. “I’ll get something out.”

Emily lowered her eyes, confused. Was he trying to embarrass her? she wondered. She could not remember if she even ate something herself the night before, much less saved something for him. She glanced at him. No, she thought. That was just his way of pretending she was normal—a good wife.

“Your purse is on that chair,” said Sylvia in a shrill voice. “If it had teeth, it would bite you.”

“Oh, thanks,” Emily whispered.

Sylvia paused in the doorway. “Good luck with your investigation. We’ll light a candle for the unfortunate girl, whoever she may be,” she said piously.

“You’re blocking my car,” said Walter. “Let’s get a move on.”

Karen lifted her leotards off the drying rack in the laundry room
and folded them into her exercise bag. Over the sound of the local radio station playing softly in the kitchen, she could hear Jenny banging around in the cabinets.

She picked up Jenny’s T-shirt and folded it, holding it close to her. “Jenny, your red shirt is dry if you want to wear it,” she called out.

Jenny did not reply. Karen walked into the kitchen and saw Jenny pouring herself some juice from a pitcher in the refrigerator.

“I said your red shirt is dry,” Karen repeated.

“I didn’t hear you,” said Jenny. “Who can hear anything over this Muzak on the radio? Do we have to listen to this station?”

“Your father needs to know the local forecast so he can plan his day.” They’d had this discussion many previous mornings.

“He isn’t even downstairs,” Jenny protested.

“Yes, I am,” Greg said, walking in and taking a glass out of the cabinet. “Can I have some of that juice?”

Jenny poured him a glass. He sat down at the island and Karen handed him a plate with an English muffin on it.

“You went up early last night,” he said, buttering his muffin.

Karen avoided his gaze. “I was tired. I read awhile in bed and went to sleep. How did it go with the new clients?”

Greg shook his head. “We didn’t really see eye-to-eye. They thought my estimates were too high. I don’t think I’ll get the job.”

“That’s unusual for you,” Karen said coolly.

“They’ll find someone who promises to do it cheaper and faster. You know how that goes.”

Karen nodded. In the course of any big construction job, there were always delays and hidden expenses. Greg tried to avoid customers who seemed impatient from the first meeting.

“Can we please put on another station?” said Jenny. “I hate these oldies.”

“These are classic tunes,” Greg teased her. “Your mother and I courted to these songs.”

“It’s the stupid news,” said Jenny.

“You’re in a good mood,” Karen observed.

“Why complain?” Greg asked cheerfully.

“…the top story this morning: A body was found in a Dumpster behind the Shop-Rite supermarket,” the announcer said.

“Ugh,” said Jenny.

“Police have identified the victim as thirty-two-year-old Linda Jean Emery, a Chicago resident who was here visiting her family.”

The juice glass Jenny was holding crashed and shattered on the wood floor as Jenny let out a strangled cry.

“Oh, my God,” said Greg, “It can’t be,” said Karen. She looked at Greg, and then both looked at Jenny, who teetered back against the counter. “Honey, are you all right?” Karen asked.

“My mother,” Jenny wailed. “No…”

“Baby, sit down,” Karen pleaded, guiding Jenny to a chair. Greg was hurriedly mopping up the floor and collecting the broken glass.

Jenny looked at Karen, but her expression was dazed. “It can’t be her.”

“Turn it up,” said Karen to Greg, who was near the radio. He turned the dial and listened intently.

“Maybe it’s a mistake,” Jenny cried.

Greg shook his head grimly. “I don’t think so.”

Jenny began to weep and shake her head. It tore at Karen to see those narrow shoulders shaking with grief.

“Oh, honey,” she said, putting an arm around her. “I’m so sorry. I just can’t believe it.”