The Readaholics and the Falcon Fiasco (11 page)

M
aud was happy to abandon the Web site she was building for an architecture firm when I told her why I was there. We were in her office, a former bedroom at the back of her house that held two powerful computers, three large monitors, a scanner, a shredder, and her political campaign button collection. A framed collage of photos showed a young Maud stabbing an
IMPEACH
poster into the air outside the White House, celebrating with college friends after the
Roe v. Wade
decision was announced, shoveling ash from a family’s roof in the wake of the Mount St. Helens eruption, and laying a single daisy atop a mountain of tributes left for John Lennon outside the Dakota building. Later photos showed her with Joe in Nicaragua, South Africa, the Galápagos, and what looked like Antarctica. There was not a piece of paper, writing implement, or filing cabinet in the place. Despite being almost thirty years my senior, Maud was way ahead of me on embracing technology. She prided herself on doing
everything digitally and constantly hectored me to make my office a paperless environment. I wasn’t as evolved as she was; I couldn’t imagine not being able to cross items off my lists with a satisfying slash of my pen.

She was completely unconcerned about my possible incarceration on mail-tampering charges. “Ivy’s not going to complain about you swiping her mail, is she? Fuhgeddaboutit. You don’t think the police or the FBI hesitate to read people’s mail when they want to, do you? They do it all the time, probable cause be damned. Watergate was our wake-up call—I circulated a petition calling for Nixon’s impeachment—but we rolled over and forgot about it. Now there’s the NSA collecting our metadata, which we know about courtesy of that weasel Snowden.”

“I’d have thought he’d be your hero,” I said.

She shook her head. “On balance, he did this country a service, but he’s a coward. If you believe in what you’re doing, you stand pat and face the consequences; you don’t turn tail and suck up to a psychopathic cretin like Putin. Did Daniel Ellsberg run off to Moscow after leaking the Pentagon Papers? Did Sherron Watkins head for the hills after outing Enron?”

“I’m guessing ‘no’?” I wasn’t going to admit I didn’t recognize either name.

“There is no such thing as privacy in this country anymore. Big Brother is alive and well and lurking in spy satellites and traffic cams,” she said. “It’s even worse online. The government spies on your credit card spending, your mortgage activity, and
even your medical status. Doctors aren’t converting to digital records because they want to, you know. No, the government is forcing them to so they can mine those records and know what kind of mental issues you have, what kinds of drugs you take, and whether or not you use birth control. You running off with a letter is small potatoes by comparison.”

I wasn’t sure two wrongs made a right, but I knew she wasn’t going to turn me in, so I handed over the ledger page.

“Ah, code! Lovely, lovely code,” she said. “I think I know you,” she told the numbers. She swiveled to face her computer. Her short-nailed fingers danced over the keys as she searched various Web sites faster than I could have typed in the URLs. Her booted foot tapped constantly. Her concentration was total; I was pretty sure she’d forgotten I was in the room. Knowing she wouldn’t miss me, I wandered to the kitchen for a drink and returned with a glass of water just as she said, “I knew I was right.”

Spinning the chair to face me, she announced, “I am a genius, and you are pretty bright yourself for bringing this to me.”

I smiled at her completely inoffensive, because totally accurate, self-assessment. “So what is it? The numbers.”

“It’s a code, of course. Do you want the good news or the bad?”

I hated that game. “Both.”

She nodded. “It’s one of the simplest codes ever, a book code.” At my blank look she continued.
“Blindingly simple. Look.” She pointed to the first trio of numbers. “The first number is the page of the book, the second is the line on the page, and the third is the letter on the line.”

I studied it. “So, each of those groups of numbers adds up to one letter?”

“Exactly.”

“That
is
easy. So what does it say?”

“Ah, there’s the tricky part. Unless you know what book the coder is using, there’s absolutely no way to break this code. That’s the bad news. The coder can use any text. The Beale ciphers used the Declaration of Independence. Benedict Arnold—slime-bag traitor—created a book code using
Blackstone’s Commentaries on the Laws of England
. Chances are, whoever put this together didn’t use either of those. The codebook could be the
Kama Sutra
—”

“I thought that was just pictures.”

“—
The Joy of Cooking
, or the Harry Potter books. Anything. Do you think Ivy wrote this?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure the handwriting on the envelope is hers, but this seems different, although it’s hard to tell with just numbers. But see how the zero on her address is fat and round and the zeros on the copied page are narrow and have kind of a tail at the top?” I used my forefinger to underscore the difference.

“You’re right. Well, that makes it all the harder. If it was Ivy, you know her well enough to at least guess at what book she might have used to create the code. When you don’t even know who the coder is, you don’t have a prayer of deciphering it.” She handed the page back to me.

“Do you think this might be related to her death?” I asked.

“Absolutely.”

Her certainty both amused and dismayed me.

“Think about it,” she commanded, reading my skepticism. “Ivy makes a copy of this page somewhere and mails it to herself, which is strange to start with. Then, probably on the day she mails it, or the day after if she missed the mailbox collection time and it sat in the box overnight, she keels over dead from oleander poisoning. How could it be possible that two such unusual events are
not
related?”

“It’s got to be theoretically
possible
,” I argued halfheartedly. I didn’t want the page to be linked with her death, because if it was, I had only one course of action open to me.

She gave me a look.

“Fine,” I conceded grudgingly. “Fine. That means I’ve got to take this page to the police.” And tell them where I got it. Which would land me in jail, where the flower of my youth would bloom and wither in the presence of tough women named Big Mama or Nina the Knife.
Flower of my youth?
I really needed to be choosier about what I read.

“Why would you do that?” Maud asked.

I knew Maud didn’t trust any uniformed person, with the possible exception of a Girl Scout, but this was too much. “Come on. They’re the ones who can find out where the page came from and who wrote it. Maybe they can get fingerprints off it.” Mine and Maud’s—yikes. “We don’t have the resources to do that.”

“Balderdash,” Maud said. “We know far more about Ivy’s life and habits than the police do. We’ve got a much better chance of figuring out where she got this page. Besides, the police aren’t even investigating anymore, are they?”

“The case is . . . dormant,” I said, supplying Detective Hart’s word. “But I’ve still got to give this to them.” I couldn’t see a way around it, even though I didn’t want to have to confess to purloining Ivy’s mail. “Maybe this will kick-start the investigation again.”

Maud snorted. “Let’s at least make a copy. We can see if the other Readaholics have any idea where Ivy got this.” She twitched the page from my slack grasp and ran it through the scanner. It appeared on the monitor moments later.

I had to admit it was pretty slick. “I suppose I should get this over with,” I said glumly. It was four o’clock. The police department would still be open.

“Want me to go with you?” Maud offered.

I was touched since I knew she’d rather bathe in bat guano than willingly engage in civil conversation with a member of the government’s legitimized forces of oppression. The thought that she might not keep it civil made me say, “I got this. Thanks, though.”

*   *   *

Ten minutes later I stood outside the police department for the second time in two days and the second time in my life. I’d come straight from Maud’s, not wanting to give myself an opportunity to chicken out, but I hadn’t figured out what
to say. Part of me wanted to stuff the page in a manila envelope and deliver it with an anonymous note saying it was Ivy’s. However, the police might not take it seriously, might think it was a prank, if I just slipped the envelope under their door in the dead of night. Sucking in a deep breath, I pulled open the door.

I expected to see Mabel at the counter, but her shift must have been over because Officer Ridgway sat there, filling out forms. A coffee maker sputtered behind him; other than that, the building was quiet.

“Hey,” he said when he noticed me. “Are you feeling better?”

His unrelenting niceness grated on me. “I need to see Detective Hart about Ivy Donner’s case,” I said.

“No need.” He gestured at the forms spread on the counter in front of him. “I’ve written up the whole thing. Probably kids. They might brag about it to their buddies, though, and then we’ll catch ’em.”

“It’s not about the break-in,” I said. “Is Detective Hart here?”

“Nope. Off-duty. Said he was headed to Grand Junction.”

“Chief Uggams, then.”

Ridgway shook his head again. “Nope. He’s gone, too. I’m in charge.” He sat straighter and puffed out his chest.

I chewed on my lower lip. Actually, this might be the easy way out. Ridgway was less
intimidating than Hart or the chief. I’d give him the letter with a minimum of explanation and let him pass it along. I pulled the envelope out of my purse and put on my helpful citizen face. “When I was at Ivy’s house this morning, the mail came through the slot. This envelope must have stuck to the bottom of my shoe because I found it when I got to my van.” I studied his face to see how he was reacting to my story. He’d scrunched his brows inward, but wasn’t yet expressing outright disbelief, so I plowed on. “When I read it—”

“Accidentally?”

Okay, so he wasn’t as naive as I’d thought.

I nodded. “Well, not really accidentally, but kind of automatically. Anyway,” I hurried on, “it looks like it might be some kind of code, and I figured it might be related to Ivy’s death, so I thought I should bring it to you. To the police.” I thrust it at him.

He took it and looked at the envelope.

“That’s Ivy’s handwriting,” I offered helpfully. “She must have mailed it to herself. You’ll make sure Detective Hart gets it, right?” I turned to go, but of course it wasn’t that easy.

“Wait a minute, ma’am.”

I turned back, expecting to see him removing the handcuffs from his belt, ready to slap them around my wrists, but he held up a form. “There’s a form to fill out for stuff like this. Can you spell your name for me?”

Almost drowning in relief, I hurriedly gave him the data he wanted, thanked him for his help, and
walked quickly from the police department. I knew my reprieve would be short-lived; when Detective Hart got hold of the report, he was likely to ask tougher questions than young Officer Ridgway.

I
entered the small room at Ellory Funeral Parlor Saturday morning, the day of Ivy’s funeral, feeling edgy and sad. The source of my sadness was obvious, but I didn’t know why I felt nervy and anxious, like I could dissolve into tears or erupt with anger equally easily. The room was windowless, carpeted in a somber wine color and wallpapered with a discreet floral print that somehow conjured graveyards rather than a happy summer garden. Maybe it was the scent of lilies and carnations from the two small bouquets on either side of the wooden urn where Ivy’s ashes reposed that gave me that impression. Ham Donner sat in the front row, shifting back and forth on the padded folding chair, which squeaked every time he moved. His hair was slicked back with gel, and a white shirt and black slacks had replaced his usual Hawaiian shirt and shorts. Ivy’s friends and coworkers were scattered about, most leaving at least a chair’s distance between them and the next mourner, as if not wanting to connect with anyone.

Kerry Sanderson and some city employees, including Kirsten, sat near the front on the side opposite Ham. Kerry looked crisp and professional in a navy suit, her wash-and-go hair just brushing the jacket collar. As I watched, she patted Kirsten’s shoulder somewhat briskly, consoling the younger woman, who had her face in her hands. I hadn’t thought Kirsten was that attached to Ivy. I spotted Brooke, sans Troy, sitting with Maud and Joe. Brooke’s curtain of silky brown hair spilled across the back of her chair. Maud and Joe sat with their shoulders touching, heads of amazingly similar white, dark gray, and silver hair—Joe’s curling around his ears and Maud’s in a fishtail braid—tilted toward each other as they whispered. Lola, her grandmother, and her sister sat behind them, all three of a height, all three with the same erect posture. It almost made me smile. There were no seats open near them, or I’d have joined them. Clay Shumer and his wife, Fiona, came in just before the service started, holding hands, and sat across the aisle and one row up from me. Fee rested her head on his shoulder. Surely they wouldn’t be here together like this, all snuggly and affectionate, if Fee knew about Clay and Ivy?

Craning my neck around, I saw Detective Lindell Hart seated on the aisle in the back row. I knew from reading police procedurals that the cops frequently attended the funerals of murder victims, hoping to spot someone or something related to the case. Did Hart’s presence mean he now believed Ivy had been murdered? I shivered. Moments before the service started, the door opened again and
I turned to view the latecomers. A thin woman wearing a black hat entered, followed by Doug. He looked around, spotted me, and made his way to the chair beside me. Kerry happened to turn around just then and raised her brows at the sight of us together. I couldn’t tell if she was astonished, disapproving, or amused. Doug’s thigh brushed mine as he sat, and I caught a whiff of his familiar aftershave, which made my abs clench. He looked good—better than good—in a black suit, white shirt, and somber charcoal-and-silver-patterned tie.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” I whispered.

“I’ve known Ivy as long as you have,” he pointed out. “We all went to high school together. I wouldn’t miss her funeral, even though I didn’t keep up with her the way you did.”

His words made me realize that as far as I knew, Ivy was the first of our graduating class to die. I wrapped my arms around myself at the thought, even though it was stuffy in the small room. The minister stepped forward then, cleared his throat, and began the service by talking about “our dear, departed sister Ivy.” Not wanting to cry again, I tuned out, hoping Carmela had remembered to deliver the tamales she promised, and that Al had picked up the black napkins and black utensils we were using. Since Ham didn’t really have a home, the reception was here at the funeral parlor, in a room at the back that looked out over the columbarium. I felt a little bad for not concentrating on the brief service, but thinking about the catering issues kept the tears at bay.

At the minister’s invitation, Ham stood up and
made his way to the front, where he stood with his hands clasped. I wondered if anyone in the congregation attributed his bleary eyes and the slightly greenish cast to his skin to grief rather than a bender.
Not charitable, Amy-Faye.
He could be both grief stricken and hungover. Ashamed of myself for my unkind assessment of Ham, I made an effort to listen.

He cleared his throat twice with a harsh, phlegmy
hrah-hrarr
. “Ivy was my sister.” Having delivered this line, he stood for a moment, chewing on his lower lip. He shifted from foot to foot and finally continued, “She was two years younger than me, but smart as all get-out. I remember a time . . .”

He launched into a rambling story about their childhood, which became a story about his run of bad luck with investments. Rustling sounds arose as people wiggled in their seats or surreptitiously looked at their watches. “I know the roadside gator attraction would’ve been a hit—when was the last time you saw gator wrestling in Colorado?—if only Ivy would’ve loaned—” He broke off, coughed into his fist, and finished, “She was a good sister, probably the best sister she could be. I’m gonna miss her.” He shambled back to his seat, head bowed.

Really, when it came right down to it, was there a better epitaph than to say you’d been the best spouse, friend, or sibling you could be, and that you’d be missed? Had I been the best friend I could be to Ivy? Was I the best sister or daughter I could be? Sniffling, I resolved to visit my parents this weekend and call my sisters. Doug shifted beside
me and reached for my hand, giving it a squeeze. I shot him a quick, startled look, but he was facing straight ahead. His palm was warm against mine. Comforting. Familiar. I let my hand rest in his briefly before pulling it away. As the minister wrapped up with a few solemn words and a recorded hymn began to play, I rose and edged past Doug, muttering something about needing to set up for the reception.

Outside the room, I took a deep breath and held it a moment before blowing it out. Ivy. Doug.
Get a grip.
I made myself focus on a different list: tamales, punch, black napkins, utensils, flowers, balloons . . . Ivy loved balloons. Striding toward the reception room, I mentally clicked through my to-do list. Stepping through the door, I inhaled the spicy scent of Carmela’s tamales and felt some of my tension drain away. The room was small, but it had windows on two sides, and the sunlight poured in, glinting off the brass of the chandelier over the table and the dull silver of the chafing dishes. One window framed the columbarium, a peaceful garden with brick walkways, gurgling fountains, and naturalized landscaping. One hundred white balloons bobbed against the ceiling, curlicues of ribbon dangling from them. Al Frink, wearing a black argyle sweater-vest and a black bow tie, filled plastic cups with pink punch from the foaming bowl.

He greeted me with a cheery “Hey, boss. Everything’s under control.” As if remembering the occasion, he lowered his voice and said, “I mean, how’s it going with the . . . the service?”

“They’re just wrapping up,” I told him.

“When I die,” he said with the cheerful optimism of someone young enough to think of death as something that happened to other people, “you can put me in a flaming longboat and launch me across Lost Alice Lake, like the Vikings did it. Might as well go out with a bang, instead of surrounded by people in their dreariest clothes listening to music that would make anyone want to slit their wrists.”

“What music do you want? ‘Ride of the Valkyries’? The Rolling Stones?”

He thought about it a moment. “Pharrell’s ‘Happy.’” He started snapping his fingers and singing under his breath, “‘. . . room without a roof. Because I’m happy—’”

A good choice.

I shushed him as a murmur of voices preceded the entrance of the first mourners. I was busy for half an hour, making sure the punch bowl stayed filled, helping blot up a glass of punch spilled on the carpet, and fetching more ice from the funeral parlor’s kitchen. I ripped the bag open and let the cubes plop gently into the punch. Pink fizz bloomed around each cube. I should have hired a caterer to do this, but since Ham wasn’t paying me much, and I didn’t expect a large crowd, and Carmela had promised the tamales, it had seemed to make more sense to do it myself.

Kerry approached as I was collecting used glasses from around the punch bowl. “Where did you disappear to yesterday?” Her nostrils worked in and out. “I went to make some notes about the kitchen, and when I got back you were gone. Ham took off, too. The cop hung about until I left; from
the way he trailed me around, I think he expected me to try to make off with a coffee table under my blouse. Did you know he and his wife just had twins? He doesn’t look old enough. It made it hard for me to do any real searching. Did you find anything interesting?”

I nodded and looked around. No one was within hearing distance. “A letter Ivy mailed to herself.”

“You stole her mail?” Kerry’s brows climbed. “Isn’t that a federal offense?”

“Ssh! You let us in under false pretenses.”

“That’s different. “

I dropped the argument about who was on soggier moral ground. “Maud says the letter—it wasn’t really a letter; it was a page copied from a ledger—is in code.”

“
Really?
What—”

Before she could finish her question, the hatted woman who’d followed Doug into the service approached and asked if I knew where the bathrooms were. By the time I’d finished directing her, someone had claimed Kerry’s attention. I glanced around for Doug but didn’t see him. Just as well. The Shumers weren’t here, either. Detective Hart, likewise, seemed to have left directly after the service. I was sorry not to get a chance to talk to him. Before I could wonder if he was really going to call me like he’d said he would, I noticed Ham hunched over the punch bowl. Strange. I studied him, wondering if he was feeling ill, and then realized he was doctoring the punch from a flask. I rolled my eyes. Did he think he was at a stag party? There were kids
here, like Lola’s sister, drinking the punch. I caught Al’s eye and signaled for him to remove the bowl. It looked for a moment like Ham was going to wrestle Al for the punch bowl, and I scrunched my eyes shut momentarily in anticipation of disaster, but Al prevailed with a quiet word in Ham’s ear. I clapped my hands silently and Al grinned. Ham, disgruntled, took a defiant swig from the flask. I turned my back on him. I’d felt semisympathetic toward him during the service, but the feeling was wearing off quickly.

Lola and her grandmother and sister were filling their plates at the buffet table, and I joined them, chatting easily with Mrs. Paget and asking Axie—short for “the accident”—about school. Her name was really Violet, but when she came along more than fifteen years after Lola, so many people referred to her as an accidental baby that the nickname stuck. She didn’t seem to mind it, refusing to answer to Violet, which she said was an “old-lady name.” She and Lola were going shopping in Grand Junction for a prom dress that afternoon, and by the time she finished enthusiastically describing what she was looking for, and Mrs. Paget had intervened to amend details about hem length and décolletage depth, the crowd had started to thin out.

I drew Lola a little aside and told her about the break-in at Ivy’s house and finding the ledger page. She listened intently, eyes unblinking behind her glasses, drawing in a sharp breath when I told her how Maud had identified the code type.

“I’ll bet that made Maud’s day,” she observed. “Codes and conspiracies right here in Heaven.” She grew thoughtful. “You don’t sound convinced that it was kids that broke into Ivy’s.”

I shook my head slowly, a little startled, as usual, by Lola’s perceptiveness. “I can’t help thinking whoever it was, was looking for the ledger page. I mean, it could have been teenagers, of course, or druggies looking for something they could sell or pawn easily, but . . .”

She gave a “just a moment” finger to Axie, who was hovering suggestively near the door. “Look, I’ve got to take Axie to Grand Junction, but maybe we—and Maud and Kerry and Brooke—should get together and talk this over. We started out wanting to honor our friend and make sure folks knew she hadn’t committed suicide, but now— Well, I didn’t bargain on invading her home and stealing her letters and mixing it up with housebreakers.”

“We didn’t—”

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” Lola said. “I care about you.”

The simplicity of the statement made me swallow my words. I hugged her. She was sturdy and warm and smelled faintly of eucalyptus-scented shampoo. She hugged me back fiercely. I told her about Ham wanting us to help him spread Ivy’s ashes around the tree house and she said of course she’d join us. As Axie came toward us with a determined look on her face, I said, “Let’s meet when you get back from dress shopping. No, wait . . . I’ve
got the Finkelstein party tonight and the Boy Scout picnic tomorrow. How about tomorrow night at my house? After dinner. Eight? I’ll tell the others.”

*   *   *

The rest of the mourners dribbled away within half an hour, taking balloons with them at my urging, leaving only Ham, Al, me, and a couple of funeral parlor employees. Al had carted the remains of the food and drink into the kitchen and washed up the service items that belonged to a rental company. The funeral director had shucked his jacket and was efficiently placing the folding chairs on a dolly. Another employee ran a vacuum. Ham sat morosely, staring out at the columbarium, occasionally refreshing himself from his flask. There was no point in hitting him up for his share of the reception expenses right now. He probably couldn’t even hold a pen, much less make out a check, in his soused condition. Should I offer to drive him home? Ugh, no. Pour him into a taxi? I was debating approaching him when a woman’s voice spoke at my elbow.

“Ms. Johnson? Do you have a moment?”

It was the woman in the black hat I’d noticed earlier, who came in just before Doug. Its rolled straw brim shadowed her face, but when she tilted her chin up, I saw that she was young—definitely under thirty. Her face was narrow and pale, with thin lips and brows. She wore a navy wrap dress and navy-and-white spectator pumps. A possible client, I deduced, attracted by how efficiently the reception had been run. I put on my professional smile.