The Widow's Mate (3 page)

“All he has to do is keep his own nose clean.”

“I'm sure he'll do that.”

Phil said nothing. Earl Hospers was something of a delicate subject. Phil had been involved in the arrest and conviction of Edna's husband, a case so complicated that it was difficult to prove that a murder had been committed. The only one who hadn't doubted Earl's guilt was Earl himself, and he would have felt unjustly treated if he had not been sent to Joliet as an accessory to manslaughter. He had been a model prisoner. Father Dowling had proposed to Edna that she turn the then empty parish school into a center for the increasing number of seniors in the parish, and during the long years of loneliness Edna had raised their children, made the center flourish, and remained loyal to her husband. Now they were reunited, and any possibility that their refound peace could be disturbed was bothersome.

“I wonder if I should mention this to Edna.”

“I wouldn't.”

Of course Phil wouldn't. Edna's not wholly reasonable resentment of Phil's role in Earl's misfortune had never gone away, and Phil avoided Edna when he visited St. Hilary's, and vice versa. Father Dowling decided he would mention it to Edna. Perhaps he could devise some parish job for Earl to get him out of harm's way. He voiced the thought to Phil.

“This place will be crawling with parolees.”

“What do you mean?”

“I understand that Gregory Packer has been attending the center.”

“Packer!”

Phil looked at him. “You didn't know?”

Marie Murkin had appeared in the doorway of the study, bearing another bottle of beer for Phil. She was staring at him. “What was that about Gregory Packer?”

There were pastors who would have called this eavesdropping, but Father Dowling was not a stickler for protocol. Besides, Marie, for all her nosiness, was an invaluable asset to the parish. True enough, she sometimes acted as if the cardinal had assigned Father Dowling to St. Hilary's as her assistant, but this was a pardonable consequence of her sense of seniority. After all, she had already been housekeeper for some years when Roger Dowling became pastor. Her relief that the parish had finally been delivered from the Franciscans made her eager to tell Father Dowling stories about his predecessors, but he soon put a stop to that. Phil, of course, was not surprised by Marie's question.

Father Dowling asked her if she knew Gregory Packer.

“He came to see me.”

“When was that?”

“You were busy at the time or I would have brought him in to meet you.”

“Did he want to see me?”

“He didn't say. He was an altar boy here long ago.”

Phil grunted. “Some altar boy.”

“What do you mean by that?” Marie demanded.

“He's had a checkered career. He spent a few years in Joliet at public expense.”

Marie dropped into a chair, her mouth open. “No!”

Phil was distracted by the game and leaned toward the set. A long fly to right nearly cleared the wall, but with a heroic effort the fielder climbed the ivy and caught the ball. Phil cheered. The no-hitter was intact. He reached for the beer that Marie still held, but she pulled it out of reach.

“Tell me about Gregory Packer,” she demanded.

Phil seemed to have forgotten mentioning him, but Father Dowling was also waiting for him to speak. So Phil told them about the checkered career of Gregory Packer.

“Five years ago or so, he had been tending bar on the Near North Side in Chicago, and his employer accused him of increasing his salary by failing to put money in the cash register. He had fiddled with the gizmo that prints out bills for the customers—pretty ingenious—but then something made the night manager keep an eye on him. Not only was he undercharging for drinks, he was pocketing other receipts. The manager told the owner, they concentrated a camera on him, and when the thing went to court the trial was over almost before it began.”

“When did he get out?”

“Early this spring. Cy Horvath had known the guy years ago, saw an item in the
Sun-Times,
and looked into it. He noticed him here a week or so ago.”

Marie had given Phil his beer during his recital, but now she looked as if she wanted to take it back. She stood. “Why are you hounding him?”

“Hounding him?”

“Oh,” Marie cried, throwing up her hands and hurrying back to her kitchen.

Phil looked at Father Dowling. “What's that all about?”

“Well, she said he was an altar boy here.”

“He was, at the same time Cy was.”

“Cy was an altar boy?”

“Why not?”

“No reason in the world. It's just that I never heard it before.”

“Cy doesn't talk about Cy much.”

“You said this embezzling took place in Chicago five years ago. Was that his first scrape with the law?”

“Well, it was his first conviction. He had been in the navy and was discharged in San Diego and stayed on. Women liked him, and he seems to have been a kind of gigolo. But then a complaint was filed. He was accused of writing checks on a lady friend's account, a widow who owned the driving range he managed.”

“And?”

“She withdrew the complaint when he proposed marriage.”

“Did he marry her?”

“Yes.” Phil sipped the beer, his eye on the screen. “A civil ceremony.”

“And?”

“Oh, she divorced him. Got a court order to keep him away from her. That's when he came back to Chicago and got the job tending bar.”

Sounds in the hallway indicated that Marie was listening in. Father Dowling raised a hand and nodded toward the door. Phil understood. Not that he wanted to go on talking about Gregory Packer. In the eighth inning, a grounder scooted by the second baseman, and the batter was safe on a close call at first.

“Damn,” Phil commented.

4

When Phil Keegan told Cy Horvath of Marie Murkin's reaction to learning about Gregory Packer, there was no alteration of expression on the lieutenant's Hungarian countenance. Telling Phil that he had known Greg Packer when they were altar boys at St. Hilary's had been meant to explain why he had checked on Greg, but Phil seemed to find nothing odd about his curiosity. The truth was that the memory of Greg had been playing at the edges of Cy's mind for years, ever since the gruesome killing of Wally Flanagan. Wally, too, had been an altar boy, and he and Greg had been thick as thieves until Greg went off to the navy, and they had all been infatuated with Melissa. It was in the hope of getting a glimpse of her that Cy had driven out to St. Hilary's and parked on the street next to the school and waited. He had learned from Luke that she was back in the parish, living in the family home Luke had turned over to her when he rented a retirement apartment near the Magnificent Mile.

“What's she doing now?”

“She likes that parish center Father Dowling started. I went there just once. Bunch of old bastards reliving their lives.”

“Why would Melissa like a center full of seniors?” She was Cy's age.

“I never did understand that woman.”

So Cy had driven out there and parked and, sure enough, caught a glimpse of Melissa. She was as beautiful as ever. He immediately recognized the guy she was with, too. Greg Packer. Cy had thought Greg was still in Joliet. He must be the reason Melissa liked the center, but neither of them was in the age group of the people that hung around there. Seeing the two of them invited him to put two and two together in a way all his police training warned against, but he couldn't help it. Nor could he help thinking of the person missing from that scene, Wally Flanagan.

*   *   *

More murders go unsolved than are ever solved, of course, and in Fox River there were investigations that ran into the protective net with which politicians had surrounded the Pianones. If the body in the cement mixer had been anyone other than Wally Flanagan, a possible Pianone connection would have been Cy's first thought, but that made no sense. Wally had been set free by his father when Luke turned over to him years in advance what he would have inherited. Wally had no interest at all in the cement business that explained all the money he received. So he had bought a membership in a brokerage firm, Kruikshank and Sharpe, and soon became the hotshot of the office. In a few years, he set himself up as an independent financial counselor and went about enriching his clients and adding to his own wealth. During that period, Cy had seen Wally only once, in a Loop bar where he had stopped after checking something out with Chicago homicide. His old friend had exuded prosperity, but what they had in common was the fact that they had been kids together.

“Missie wants to move into the old parish, Cy.” He meant Melissa.

“It's changed.”

“Of course it's changed. Everything changes.” He looked almost glum when he said it. “So what are you doing?”

Cy told him.

“Hoping to last long enough to get your pension? Listen, Cy, let me have a thousand and I'll get a portfolio started for you. Add regular amounts and I all but guarantee you your retirement will come years sooner and be a helluva lot more comfortable.”

In those days, the thought of handing over a thousand dollars to start an investment portfolio had all the never-never quality of winning the lottery. Cy told Wally he would think about it.

“Don't forget, I have a lot of concrete experience.” He punched Cy's arm to make sure he got the joke.

That's when the blonde joined them. She was tall and suited and gorgeous, and only an idiot would doubt that something was going on between the two.

“This is Sandy,” Wally said. He added, “Another client.”

Sandy laughed. Cy got out of there. In his line of work, nothing surprised him much, but the idea that the man who had won Melissa would fool around with even a dish like Sandy almost shocked Cy. Of course he remembered the woman when Wally disappeared. During the investigation, he got access to Wally's office records and identified her. Sandra Bochenski. When he went to her address, a posh apartment house on the North Shore, he learned that she had moved.

The manager, an officious little guy named Ferret with a cookie-duster mustache, had been eager to talk about the former tenant. “My God, she was something. When a Polack is beautiful there is absolutely nothing like it.” He paused. “You Polish?”

“Hungarian.”

He seemed relieved. Cy showed him a photograph of Wally. Ferret nodded. “Sure, that's her fiancé.”

“What happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she moved away.”

“They were going to settle on the West Coast.”

“She told you that?”

“Look, she always stopped to talk. Real class.” Ferret looked around. “Most of the residents are a pain in the whatchamacallit. Expect me to tug my forelock when they go by. Not her. And generous? A huge tip every Christmas.”

“How long did she live here?”

“Just a couple years. But I knew her better than many who have been here forever.”

“Where on the West Coast?”

“California.” He thought. “I think San Diego.”

Cy decided not to tell Ferret that Wally's wife in Fox River had reported him missing. He made inquiries, but no Wallace Flanagan was listed in the San Diego directory. One of the problems Cy faced was what Wally could be charged with when he was found. As far as Melissa could tell, he had left all their money behind, so if she was abandoned she certainly wasn't destitute. Of course, if Wally married Sandra Bochenski he would be committing bigamy, but when was the last time a bigamist had been put away? It was the affront to his personal memories rather than the criminal code that made Cy wish he could haul Wally in.

Because of the personal connection, he might have stayed on it, but one case gets pushed aside by later ones; he had less and less time to devote to the mysterious disappearance of Wally Flanagan. Frank Looney was no help.

Frank spent a lot of time in the yard and had a dusty look. He shook his head. “Know what I remember? He said more than once, ‘I wouldn't be caught dead in this place.' I love it.”

“Did you see much of him?”

Frank shook his head. “It broke my uncle's heart when Wally told him there was no way he would take over the business. Lucky break for me, of course. I don't know when I stopped worrying that Wally would change his mind and Uncle Luke would tell me the deal was off.”

Talking with Melissa was the hardest thing of all.

“We were altar boys together.” A dumb opening, but why not.

“I remember.” Her hair was so black she looked more Spanish than Irish, and the olive skin added to the impression. Her eyes were green, so his memory had not played him false.

“Melissa, I have to ask you. Did you have any intimation that he would leave?”

“Why would he leave? Cy, it must be amnesia. You read of cases like that.” She shivered. “Imagine not knowing who you are.”

“No money problems?”

“Only that we had too much.”

Of course, he did not tell her of meeting Sandy or the possessive way she had taken Wally's arm, and why tell her of the number of people who just disappear and are never located? Maybe she was right and it was amnesia. In a way, that made it more likely Wally would be found. He would seek help, trying to find out who he was. Cy wished he hadn't encouraged Melissa to think that. She reached out and laid a long-fingered hand on his arm.

“Of course you're right. I hired a lawyer.”

“Isn't Amos Cadbury the family lawyer?”

“I couldn't ask him to do this.”

“Who'd you hire?”

“A man named Tuttle.”

Cy had made no comment. Tuttle! Now, years later, he thought of the time line since Wally disappeared. Ten years afterward, his body had been discovered in one of the Flanagan cement mixers. That seemed to put an end to it. The investigation had been intense but brief and was soon pushed aside by other matters. Cy had noticed Greg Packer at the funeral and had decided against talking to him. So once more, the waters of forgetfulness had closed over the mystery. Now, half a dozen years later, Melissa was living in the Flanagan house in St. Hilary's parish, a frequent presence at the senior center, and Greg Packer, a graduate of Joliet, had reappeared, and the two seemed to have formed a pair.