Murder in Death's Door County (2 page)

“Karen, I understand you completely. I
will get on these books as soon as possible. When do you need me to complete my
research by?”

“Friday at 10 a.m. You will be giving me
and Stan a 30 minute presentation on what you’ve learned.”

Friday. my jaw dropped as I swiftly
calculated. Today was Monday. My heart followed my jaw. Only four and half
days?

“All three books?” Darn it, there was
that squeak again.

“Yes or there will be consequences.” Oh dear—visions
of pink slips danced in my head.

Karen had found my Achilles heel: public
speaking. The last time I spoke publicly, I ran out of topics halfway because I
raced through my speech in a bizarre, halting pattern. A member of the audience
came and pried me off the podium. People had offered to help me get better at
it. It did no good. My normally sunny demeanor diminished exponentially in
ratio to the amount of people paying attention to me speaking.

In stunned silence, I walked back to my
cubicle with the books. I wasn’t quite sure what to do with the books. Should I
take them home for some light night reading? Sigh. The incinerator seemed like
a much better place.

—
–

My apartment was in downtown
Milwaukee on State and Cass Streets. The area had some growth, but the mindset
of the city seemed entrenched in a weird inferiority complex to Chicago. With
this inferiority complex, the city had stagnated to the point of moving
backwards. While I liked my apartment, I only stayed in the city for
convenience. I had family fairly nearby and I could walk to my job on Wisconsin
Avenue. Plus, I had a teeny tiny view of Lake Michigan from my apartment. If I
stood on the edge of my sofa and craned my neck, I could see a patch of the lake.
Naturally, I paid for that lake view, but I loved being so close to the water.

Most of my neighbors were
other professionals like me, which made it kind of boring. Here and there, a
few older people dotted the hallways. My apartment was an older building with
no elevators, which I think was part of the reason why senior citizens avoided
it. I lived on the top floor of the three-story building.

On this night, I threw my
brown Coach purse and black laptop bag on the couch, dropped the three books on
the coffee table, and went to the kitchen for a drink. Beer called out to me, and
I answered. Normally, I abstained on weeknights, but those books would need a
little help going down.

As I flopped onto my vintage
(in other words, old, very used, and very free) easy chair, I grabbed my cell
phone to call Harry back. The minute I touched the phone, it started ringing. I
almost dropped it. Caller ID told me it was my Grandpa. I adored my Grandpa. Grandpa,
also known as Bill Malone, was a retired cop, who lived with his sister, Helen
Kravidocz, in a suburb of Milwaukee called Wauwatosa. Aunt Helen had moved in
with Grandpa after Grandma had passed away. The move worked well for the
widowed siblings, it staved off loneliness, and Aunt Helen kept Grandpa on his
toes. It also kept Grandpa off my back, so it was a win-win-win.

My Grandparents raised me
after my Mom, Jo Ann Malone, died at a very young age. Grandma died when I was
about 13, and Aunt Helen moved in the following year. Through no fault of my
own, my Dad, Anskar Bach, left my Mom when I was two to join the circus back in
his native Germany. After that happened, my Mom reverted back to her maiden
name and took me with her. We moved in with her parents, which is where I
stayed after she died of a freak parrot attack three years later.
Unfortunately, as a result I had become really afraid of parrots. I haven’t
seen my father since he left us. But I had heard about his madness, and
unrequited love and subsequent stalking of a circus midget named Greta. That
was definitely on record. Shortly after my mother died and slightly before the
stalking charges, he tried to contact me, but I think my Grandpa told him to
get help before he could have contact. He didn’t, so I haven’t heard from him
since. And, I have never met anyone on my Father’s side; most of them lived in
Germany anyway. From rumor and conjecture, I deduced they were rather crazy.
And, other than Grandpa and Aunt Helen, I didn't have any other family on my
Mother's side.

“Hey Papa,” I answered the
phone. “How are you?”

“Hello! Better now that I’ve
talked to you, Anna Banana.” An old line, but one that always made me smile. “How
are you? Are you coming home for dinner? Your Aunt Helen is expecting you.” Even
in a cheerful voice, his voice sounded a little growly. I shudder to think how
many would-be suitors he had scared away with his low, bass-like voice when I
lived at home.

Although I hadn’t lived
there for 12 years, it still felt like home. Looking at the three books on the
coffee table gave me pause. “Sorry, Papa, I’m not gonna be able to make it home
tonight. How about tomorrow night?”

“Suit yourself. But remember
to take it easy. Try not to burn the candle at both ends.”

“OK, Papa. I love you too.”

As we disconnected, I could
hear Aunt Helen yelling in the background, “Well, can she make it for dinner,
Bill?”

Smiling to myself, I pulled up Harry’s number
and hit “Send.” As the phone rang, I wondered how on earth I was going to stay
awake while reading the books Karen gave me.

“Hey doll.” I rolled my eyes at his
stock greeting for every female.

“Hey Harry,” I said. “How are you? So,
what’s this ‘perfect project’?”

“If I were any better, I’d be dipped in
gold. Oh, this project is perfect for you, Sweetheart.” I imagined him chomping
on a cigar as he spoke. Sometimes it felt like Harry fell straight out of the
sky from the 1960s. I thought he must be the personification of
Mad Men
meets the Elliot Gould character from
Ocean’s Eleven
. I hadn’t met him
face-to-face yet, but I had high hopes that the image matched the
man.

“In what way, Harry? Hmmm… ya know, that’s
what you said about the chick who wrote about robots being used during the
Revolutionary War. She was a nut! A nut! She wrote the book for Liberace. Not
as a dedication. He was her audience. And he’s been dead for quite a while. I
don’t know how she thought…”

“Okay, okay. So, we haven’t always given
you the best of the best,” Harry deftly cut me off. He knew. “But this! This is
a great project. And we know you can handle this guy.”

“Handle this guy?” All kinds of alarms
went off in my head.

“Well, there is a catch.”

I sighed. Of course, the inevitable “catch.”
But my mind churned, this could be your way out of CritiCentric. Just hear him
out.

“What’s the catch, Harry?”

“He’s got anger issues, Annie.”

“Okay, define anger issues.”

“Well, that’s tricky…”

Tricky? The hairs on my neck bristled in
warning. I covered the phone’s mouthpiece and muttered, “I know I’m going to
regret this.” Louder, I said, “Harry. Focus. You want me to interview this guy.
I need to know what to expect.”

“Okay. Okay. Remember, you asked me to
tell you. No one in the office wants to talk to him. I’m the only one he doesn’t
yell at.”

Ignoring the comment about the client
yelling, I asked what seemed to be a logical question, “So, why don’t you take
the project?”

“Doll, I have my hands full. Plus, I
know that you have experience with handling difficult people. You interview
people really well, really dig into who they are. And I figured with your sweet
nature…”

“Sheesh. All right, cut the crap, Harry.
I need this project, so I’ll probably do it. What does the gig pay?”

“Twenty thousand dollars.” My phone slid
from my hand as my vision dimmed a little. Through a fog, I could still hear
Harry talking as I picked up the phone.

“I’m sorry, Harry. I’ve had a really bad
day and don’t think I heard you right.” Cradling the phone, I pressed my
temple. “How much? Because it sounded like you said twenty thousand dollars.”

I started to laugh. That couldn’t be
right. Before I could stop myself, I thought about everything I could do with
the money. I could pay off my car. I could quit my day job. I could buy Grandpa
and Aunt Helen a lovely dinner. And, most importantly, I wouldn’t have to make
that heinous presentation because I could give my two weeks’ notice! Tomorrow!

“Yep, you heard me right. Who’s laughing
in the background?”

I had laughed myself into hyperventilation
and had to put my head between my knees. As if through a distant tunnel, I
heard Harry calling my name.

“Annie? Annie? Are you still there? Is
that you laughing?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. What? Oh, that was
someone laughing on T.V. I’m here. This sounds like a great project. What’s the
next step?”

“I’ll email you his name and contact
info. Like I said, he does have some anger issues, but you should be okay.”

“I feel like there’s something you aren’t
telling me, Harry.”

Harry got serious. “Well… Look, Annie,
this is a wonderful opportunity for you to prove yourself to us. He actually
requested you based on your portfolio with us. Plus, the pay is way above what
you normally make. Do you want this gig or not?”

My gut said WAIT! This feels “off.” But,
my pocketbook and work reality won out with their two cents: Are you crazy? DO
IT NOW! It’s five times what you normally make as a ghostwriter! Entry-level
ghostwriters don’t make that much. Sure, four thousand dollars for a fifty thousand-word
book sounds like a lot, but do the math. With a full-time day job and
super-weird clients, each book takes about two to three months. And don’t
forget the taxes.

“Okay, I’ll do it.”

“Fabulous. I gotta go, but I’ll call you
tomorrow with more information.”

Calming myself with the thought that it
would only be for a few months, I pushed down my gut feelings and did a dance
around the room. My inner child (who was alarmingly close to the surface) did
somersaults and cartwheels. I really hoped I could do ghostwriting full-time
now!

A
FTER I HAD A MODEST
DINNER
of tomato soup and a
grilled cheese sandwich, I pondered how to word my resignation letter to
CritiCentric, and logged onto the laptop they had supplied to me. I really just
wanted to ditch the job—to not even write a resignation letter. But my
conscience got the best of me. I didn’t want to burn bridges, plus I was
grateful to them for giving me the job. Once the machine booted up, I wrote a
very short and to-the-point letter. After I wrote it, I went straight to my
personal email account and sifted through my messages. I saw Harry’s
information on the new ghostwriting gig and was satisfied - I hadn’t been
dreaming. I could really quit my day job. Harry had included the client’s
contact information, and some particulars of this project. After I printed out
the files Harry had sent, I arranged them on the coffee table. I looked over
his contact information first.

His name, Marcos Landrostassis. I looked
at his prison record and criminal complaints. Wow! Whatever the outcome of this
book, it had promise of making a mark. From Harry’s notes, this guy had been in
and out of the prison system in two states multiple times in the last eight
years. Once he had done time in the Racine County Correctional Facility in
Wisconsin, and another time in Illinois. However, in his notes on the court
records, Harry wrote that Marcos claimed he was framed and that the courts were
lying. Marcos also claimed that the law enforcement agencies were in collusion
with the banks. I supposed anything was possible.

As I read further, I noticed that he had
a wife named Diana. No kids.

Harry had made it clear in his email
that the spin of this book was to be of an innocent man being wrongly accused.
That gnawing feeling in my gut returned as I looked over the documents.

However, necessity made me push that
feeling way down. I needed this gig.

I made a few notes for their first
interview and decided to call Marcos the next day. Happy dreams of resignations
danced in my head as I fell asleep.

—
–

When I woke up, the air smelled crisper.
The fall foliage looked more beautiful. The sun shone brighter. For a second, I
wondered why I felt so great. Then I remembered: I was giving my two-weeks’
notice today. Ah! Life was grand! Bounding out of bed, I made coffee, brushed my
teeth, and showered. I changed into one of my best outfits in honor of giving
notice. I wore an Ann Taylor dress with a black empire-waist skirt and a
peacock blue top. I had been told that the blue in the dress set off my light
complexion nicely, and helped me look older than 15. Sadly, at 30 years old, I
still got asked where I went to high school. By high school students. Along
with that, I wore my three-inch heels. Take that, Karen and company!

When I got to the building where I
worked, I noticed a crowd of ambulances and squad cars in the street. As I got
closer, I saw Sally, the receptionist, standing on the sidewalk.